


it takes a lot to know a man

by kittyandmulder, steebadore



Category: Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Amputee Bucky Barnes, Canonical Character Death, Embedded Images, Explicit Sexual Content, Getting Together, Grief/Mourning, Inspired by Fanart, M/M, Mentions of Cancer, Meta, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, and went to the gym a lot, but like if he had modern medical care and good food, way less heavy than these tags make it sound
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-30
Updated: 2019-06-30
Packaged: 2020-05-30 19:44:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 38,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19410106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder, https://archiveofourown.org/users/steebadore/pseuds/steebadore
Summary: Bucky flips to the next page, and the world around him grinds to a halt as his brain struggles to process what he's seeing. The noise of the train fades and static fills the inside of his head as he looks down at the sketches of the metal-armed guy without the mask. It's—that'shim.  It's Bucky's own goddamn face staring back at him from this stranger's sketchbook."What the fuck."(Or, as I like to refer to it: two absolute disasters figure out how to use their words and touch mouth parts.)Written for the 2019 Captain America Reverse Big Bang





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Big thanks to [kittyandmulder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder) for their incredible art that inspired this fic, and for being patient as literal saints while I wrote this at a glacial pace right up to the wire. Please go to their profile to check out the art in full size--it's amazing!
> 
> Thanks to [gracelesso](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gracelesso/pseuds/gracelesso) for the sensitivity read and the reality checks, and [anoneknewmoose](https://archiveofourown.org/users/anoneknewmoose/pseuds/anoneknewmoose) and [corarochester](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoraRochester/pseuds/CoraRochester) for betaing and keeping me sane, and the discord eggs for their patience while I whined nonstop since February about how hard this was to write. And of course, thanks to the mods for organizing and holding it all together with grace while juggling 9,000 separate issues. 
> 
> Quick note on the tags: I think who the Canonical Character Death refers to should be fairly obvious, but if you need spoiling I'm happy to do so. This is not what I would consider a particularly heavy story, but if there's anything I haven't warned for you think deserves a tag, let me know.

It's 4:22am on Wednesday and Bucky is on the train. He's on the train at 4:22am on Wednesday partly because that's how he gets to work, but mostly because that's what it says on the little piece of notebook paper he has folded neatly in his wallet. This time of day it should really only take him about an hour to get from his apartment in Bed-Stuy to his job in midtown, but the MTA being what it is and Bucky's neuroses being what they are, he builds in an extra hour to be safe. Besides, this early the trains aren't likely to be near as crowded, and he's been happy to sacrifice an hour of sleep if it means a little extra breathing room on his ridiculous commute.

This morning the train is almost entirely empty except for those he's begun to think of as his regulars. Like his carefully drawn daily schedule, it soothes something in him to watch the same handful of people file in and out in their usual order. Bluetooth Bastard, who still has yet to figure out the meaning of quiet car, and Greasy Hipster get off at Hewes, heads angled down at their phones as they shuffle like automatons toward the doors. As soon as they close, the older woman begins making her way slowly down the aisle in anticipation of her stop, pulling her collapsed metal cart with the squeaky wheel behind her. She gives Bucky a small smile as she passes, and his body seizes for a fraction of a second before he remembers how to meet her eyes briefly and nod. He hopes his face is friendly, with none of the involuntary panic bleeding through. He hopes she knows he's still looking out for her.

He hopes one day he can find the means to take a bottle of WD-40 to that fucking wheel. The shrill screech of it at—he checks his watch—4:28 in the goddamn morning is maybe the most obnoxious sound in human existence.

She gets off at Essex, and his whole body tightens in irrational anticipation of spending the next five minutes alone in this quiet, empty car with the blond nightmare who has become his spiritual nemesis. Blondie might be a perfectly nice guy, who knows, but he has the unfortunate tendency to sit directly across the aisle from Bucky on the days they share the train, which severely limits Bucky's ability to do anything but look at his phone and occasionally glance to the left or right of himself. Because—and Bucky deeply regrets that he knows this from very personal, very mortifying experience—it turns out that despite Blondie looking like the kind of frat boy twunk who divides his time between barbells and beer pong, he's got the kind of...ugh, everything that means Bucky cannot look directly at him. 

If Bucky looks at his floppy hair or his stupid thick arms or his improbably delicate hands perpetually curled around a pencil and a notebook, he will inevitably stare for the entire twenty minute ride. He will stare so hard that he will actually create a magnetic field that will drag Blondie's eyes away from his scribbling and tractor beam them straight into his own crazy gay, blatantly fucking staring eyeballs. And Blondie will frown at him for a split second behind the thick lenses of his glasses, his laser-beam blue eyes narrowed, red mouth pursed—right before his face resolves into a knowing smirk and a quirked brow that will make Bucky feel like he is simultaneously burning alive with shame and melting into a horny puddle of slag. Mercifully, Blondie will immediately dismiss him in favor of whatever's in his notebook, and Bucky will have to spend the rest of his commute seriously considering quitting his brand new government-issued job and moving somewhere suitably horrible to atone for the sins god is so obviously not done punishing him for. Like Jersey.

So, anyway, Bucky keeps his eyes to himself now.

Except the announcement for Blondie's usual stop is blaring through the car and Blondie isn't getting up from his slouched sprawl across the aisle. Usually he's rolling to his feet and hovering at the doors the minute it sounds, then sprinting through as soon as they open. But not today. Bucky risks a full glance as the train approaches the station, and is incredulous to see that Blondie is actually fucking asleep. Now Bucky knows he's got the brain of a feral squirrel on acid these days, but he's got no earthly idea how anyone can manage to fall asleep on this filthy goddamn train full of strangers. Even at the ungodly hour of 4:32am.

But he's feeling greedy now, all these weeks of deliberate avoidance making his eyes feel hungry and a little unhinged as he looks Blondie over. His chin is tucked in a way that makes Bucky's own fucked neck twinge in sympathy, his thick arms folded tight over his chest. Instead of the ever-present notebook, today he's got a bouquet of cheery flowers wrapped in paper clutched in one hand, the bright pinks and yellows more out of place against the Cracked Linoleum and Sadness aesthetic of the train than if someone had dropped trou and taken a shit right in the aisle. Which Bucky doesn't doubt has actually happened. Probably more than once.

He looks exhausted, and Bucky feels a surge of something like recognition, or maybe simple solidarity that allows him the courage to creep his boot across the aisle and gently tap it against the other man's shoe. Blondie comes awake with a start, eyes wide and unfocused, his mouth falling open on a gasp.

"Fuck," he hisses, wild eyes meeting Bucky's in grateful acknowledgement before he jumps to his feet and sprints for the doors just as they begin to close, a couple of bright yellow petals floating to the filthy floor in his wake.

Bucky smiles at his hands, congratulating himself on a successful social interaction—it counts even if he didn't speak—and maybe the redemption of his previous creepiness, when his eyes land on a familiar gray notebook lying forgotten on the seat Blondie'd just ejected from. He feels a pulse of panic swell behind his ribs as indecision locks him in place. He knows if he leaves it here, Blondie will never see it again. If Bucky takes it, then he will have to interact with Blondie next time he shows up in order to give it back, an act that will possibly even require him to make human words come out of his mouth. Which is so incredibly not ideal. The least ideal thing he can think of, actually. But, though he's spent a lot of time definitely not noticing anything Blondie does, he knows the thing rarely leaves his hands. It must be important to him; it would be shitty of Bucky to deliberately not help get it back to him when it would cost him so little.

What's the last scrap of his dignity at this point, anyway?

He steps across the aisle just as the doors open at the next stop and a few more people come filing in. Feeling like a criminal, he grabs the notebook and settles back into his own seat just as the train lurches to life again. He flips it open hoping to find a phone number, and sees _If found, please return to Steve Rogers_ with an address in neat script on the front page. He can't quite help himself from paging through the rest of it, though he knows it makes him a nosy asshole. It turns out what Blondie— _Steve_ has been scribbling all these weeks is some pretty cool art of what looks like a comic book character? Page after page of a big guy who looks vaguely like Steve in various poses, wearing a uniform with a big star on the chest and an A on his helmet. In most, he's shown holding or throwing or catching some sort of giant...frisbee, maybe? Bucky's really not sure. The guy is wielding it like some kind of weapon, but an oversized discus is a pretty dumbshit choice.

Farther in, the drawings start to change. Frisbee Guy looks...not older, exactly, but worn down. His mouth is drawn tense and unhappy beneath a beard, his shoulders rounded and eyes not quite so full of righteous determination. He looks the way Bucky feels most mornings. Maybe it's the way Steve feels too. The thought plucks at something in Bucky's chest; he wouldn't wish this type of bone-deep, existential exhaustion on anyone.

Toward the end, the drawings take a sharp turn. There's a new character, with longer dark hair and a mask covering half his face. He's wearing some kind of strappy uniform that looks like what would happen if a dungeon master designed tac gear, and he's got what appears to be a left arm made entirely of metal plates with a big star emblazoned on the shoulder. There are pages of sketches of just the arm from different angles, with a few different plating patterns, as though Steve couldn't decide on the design.

Bucky flips to the next page, and the world around him grinds to a halt as his brain struggles to process what he's seeing. The noise of the train fades and static fills the inside of his head as he looks down at the sketches of the metal-armed guy without the mask. It's—that's _him_. It's Bucky's own goddamn face staring back at him from this stranger's sketchbook.

The PA blares with the announcement for his stop, startling Bucky out of his shock. He snaps the notebook closed, shoving it into the depths of his backpack and shuffling to the doors. He feels like one raw nerve as he walks quickly through the scant crowd in the station, stumbling a little on the stairs in his haste to get into the open. The crisp morning air hits him full in the face when he emerges, and he gulps down greedy lungfuls. He is, he realizes, breathless with a rage he can't fully name, but beneath the bright burn of his anger is a cavernous disappointment threatening to swallow him whole. He thought he'd moved past this, scrubbed himself clean of the soldier, blunted the edges the army had honed, but if a stranger who spends twenty silent minutes a day with him can see through him this clearly, then obviously he fucking failed. Panic hovers like a specter at the center of him, vibrating with the need to expand, to swallow him down.

He closes his eyes and allows himself a moment to recalibrate. He can't go to work feeling this unhinged unless he wants to have a full fucking meltdown the minute he's even slightly inconvenienced. And it's not that he doesn't have a lot of practice talking himself down in a bathroom stall, but it's not how he wants to spend his lunch break. So he breathes deep, bearing down on his crazy, and gets moving. He's got— _fuck_ —four minutes to make it the three blocks to the 4 train.

**:: :: ::**

He gets to work with forty three minutes to spare, and digs his schedule out of his wallet to note the time. When he gets home he'll input it into the spreadsheet Nat helped him set up to track the length of his average commute, so hopefully once he's got enough data his paranoid squirrel brain will allow him to reevaluate the time he's allocating for travel. Getting to work almost an hour early is fucking stupid, especially because he's not allowed to clock in until his shift starts at six.

He settles onto the bench outside and digs the paperback out of his backpack. His fingers brush the hard edge of the notebook, the reminder sending a tremor through him that he forcibly stills, and settles in to spend the next forty one minutes being distracted by L'Arkin, the dragon shifter space commander stranded on Mars.

Ten minutes later, a guy and a woman he recognizes from the third floor—marketing, he thinks—come out. They must have a big project going on to be working this early, or maybe late, depending. "Hey," the woman says when she sees him. "Barnes, right? You work in the mailroom?" 

Bucky nods, cheating the cover of the book toward himself so they don't get an eyeful dragon tits. "Bucky."

She raises an eyebrow but doesn't comment, which officially earns her the title of his Favorite Person So Far Today. "I'm Sheila, this is Daryl." She nods toward the guy fishing a pack of cigarettes out of his pocket.

"Hey," Daryl says, teeth clamped around a cigarette. "You mind if I smoke?"

Bucky does mind actually, but not enough to say so. He shrugs and Sheila rolls her eyes. "Gross," she says to Daryl before turning to Bucky and smiling. It's a kind smile, one that doesn't go tight around the edges in a way that tells him the other person is trying really hard not to look at his empty left sleeve. "We're gonna go get some coffee, you wanna come?"

It's a nice offer, and he thinks she probably even means it, but anxiety still hits him like a lead pipe to the back of the skull. He has time. Logically, he knows he does. A glance at his watch tells him he has a full thirty one minutes and four seconds until his shift starts, and he wouldn't mind getting some coffee and getting to know some people at work besides Sergio his taciturn supervisor, and Jerry, the absolutely batshit crazy guy who runs the mailroom with him and spends most of the day monologuing about chemtrails. And more importantly, right now he could really do with a distraction from what feels like a live grenade sitting in his bag.

But he can't.

It's stupid, so fucking stupid, but the fact is it doesn't say anything about getting coffee on his schedule. It says _4:00am - 6:00am: travel to work_. The thought of deviating from the plan makes sweat prickle along his hairline and a sick heavy feeling pool in his gut, and no amount of recognizing his own goddamn crazy makes his panic any less real. 

"No, I'm good," he says, managing to sound somewhat sane despite the klaxons blaring in his brain. "Thanks, though."

"Okay," she says with another smile. "See you around."

He watches them walk away and feels a heavy exhaustion begin to creep in at his edges.

**:: :: ::**

That night after dinner, Bucky amends his schedule:

 _4:00am - 6:00am: travel to work_  
↳ 4:05am - 4:35am: give notebook back to ~~Blondie~~ Steve ~~Ask him~~ ~~Tell him~~  
↳ 5:20am - 5:40am: acceptable timeframe to get coffee with Sheila and Daryl

He's not sure when Steve will show up next; he's usually on the train with Bucky at least three days a week, but the days are never in any noticeable pattern. He adds Steve to his schedule anyway, because it makes him feel better to have it written down, even if he doesn't quite know what he'll say. _"Hey, here's your notebook, and oh by the way what the fuck?"_ doesn't seem quite the way to go, but he doesn't know how to articulate this—this feeling of being laid bare by a stranger. Those drawings are of a ghost, a version of himself he thought he'd left dead and buried in the desert. It's like Steve had looked at him and seen the Bucky of three years ago transposed; a soldier with his teeth bared and mind empty but for the lies he'd been fed. And worse, he'd taken the mistakes Bucky'd paid for in blood and flesh and bone and he'd paved over them, replaced them with something made for more violence.

When Bucky squints through the fog of his neuroses and the self-involvement that is the plucky little sidekick to his capital A anxiety, he recognizes that these aren't really drawings of him at all, it's just his face on a fictional character's body. Probably more a matter of proximity than anything else; it's unlikely Steve spared any thought to Bucky himself when he was casting around for a subject to reference for his character. Bucky knows that, he does. But it doesn't change the way it feels as though Steve has reached inside him and pulled out the worst of him and put it on display.

But how do you say that to a stranger?

**:: :: ::**

Steve isn't on the train on Thursday. Which is fine. It just means Bucky has more time to figure out what he wants to say to him.

Sheila and Daryl don't show up either, and Bucky feels a little stupid and a little desperate for thinking they'd come find him again after he blew them off the day before. Probably they're back to their normal nine to five schedule anyway. In any case, it's a relief. He is relieved not to have to deviate from his routine. He needs to finish his book, anyway. It's almost time to return it to the library.

**:: :: ::**

Steve doesn't show up on Friday either, and Bucky isn't panicking. He's not. It's fine. Steve doesn't know Bucky has his notebook, and he's definitely not avoiding Bucky on purpose just to drive him insane. That is not a thing that is happening, no matter what scenarios his fucking fried egg brain imagines.

**:: :: ::**

The train breaks down and it takes him nearly forty five extra minutes to get home on Friday, which seems about right for the kind of day he's had. The sky had opened up the minute he'd stepped out of the station this morning, and he's been wearing uncomfortably damp jeans all day, which means his inner thighs are probably chafed raw. On top of which, Jerry called out so Bucky had to do all the payroll deliveries himself. Why there are upwards of thirty people in this company still doing paper checks in the year of our lord two thousand and direct deposit he has no idea, but he wasn't surprised to find they were all older white guys.

"Hey, Bucky," Natasha calls when he storms through the door. She's sitting on the kitchen counter, swinging her bare feet and drinking a glass of wine while Clint throws a disk of pizza dough in the air and tries to catch it.

The sight of Friday Pizza Night in full swing makes everything gone frantic and tight inside him loosen so abruptly he feels nearly dizzy with relief. Thank fucking god something about today is finally going as scheduled.

"Hey," he says, coming over to give her a kiss on the cheek. He's never surprised exactly to realized he's missed her, but the relief at having both his people where they belong feels new each week, a reminder to enjoy these moments while he can. Nat spends weekdays in DC, working at the Pentagon, and the weekends at home in Bed-Stuy with Clint. Eventually they'll thumb wrestle or draw straws or rock paper scissors—or, more likely, Nat will make a unilateral decision for the both of them—about who gets to move, but for now this is what makes sense for them. Bucky's not stupid, he knows he's part of the reason it hasn't happened already—after all, Clint can teach middle school math and gym class anywhere, but there's only one DHS—and he's both grateful for and annoyed by it.

Natasha gives him a once over. "What's wrong? You look like shit."

"Thanks." He makes a face at her. "Good to see you too, Nat."

"You find your boy today?" Clint asks, slapping the nearly perfect round of dough onto the floured counter and making Nat sneeze.

"Oooh, a boy?" Nat says, concern dissolving to excitement. "Is that the reason you look like you haven't slept in a week? Tell me everything—legal name, date of birth, social…"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "Not that kind of boy."

"Yet," Clint cuts in. 

Bucky groans and heads to the fridge to grab a beer. He pops the cap off on the wall-mounted bottle opener and takes a long pull. "Guy I take the train with," Bucky explains. "He left his notebook the other day and I grabbed it, but he hasn't been around since."

"Notebook full of drawings of Buck," Clint helpfully supplies.

"What?" Nat asks sharply, her eyes darting to Bucky.

Bucky shrugs uncomfortably. "They're like...comic book characters or something? One of the characters is me—or has my face anyway."

"That's weird," Nat says, frowning.

"Yeah." Bucky sighs. "I'm—he's some kind of soldier, I guess? And Steve, the train guy, drew him with this big metal tank of an arm." Bucky gestures toward his empty left side.

"Wait, he drew you with a prosthetic?" Clint says, head whipping up from his liberal application of pizza sauce. "You didn't tell me that. That's kind of fucked up, dude."

Bucky feels something ease in him at Clint's unknowing validation of his feelings. It's not that Clint is in any way an arbiter of sanity, but at this point he's been discharged two years longer than Bucky, and is fueled by at least fifty percent fewer neuroses.

"You going to ask him about it?" Natasha asks, her tone going flat in a way that means she's mentally sharpening her knives.

"If he ever shows up again." Bucky pauses. "There's an address in the notebook though. Would it be weird if I dropped it off in person?"

Natasha raises a brow. "Not any weirder than him drawing a complete stranger in incredibly insensitive ways."

"It was just a couple pages," Bucky says, recognizing the signs of Natasha gearing up to go nuclear on someone who's injured one of her people. "I doubt he meant anything by it—and besides, he never meant for me to see it anyway."

"Doesn't make it right," she says. "You want me to go with you?"

He wishes he was pathetic enough to take her up on the offer; she'd have no problem figuring out what to say. "Nah," he says. "I'll be fine. I don't think he bites."

"Yet," Clint says with a leer, and Bucky would like to believe that after the existential fuckery of the last couple days the mental image of Steve's mouth would no longer give him any kind of thrill, but his dick regrets to inform him that crazy blond assholes who draw strangers on trains would still look very nice on their knees.

**:: :: ::**

He gives himself an hour after breakfast on Saturday to psych himself up. It's all his schedule will allow in any case, having revised it last night to include the trip to and from Brooklyn Heights before brunch with Natasha and Clint. He's still not sure what he's going to say to Steve, but even if he did he knows he could practice it in front of the mirror a hundred times and his brain would still turn to overcooked macaroni at the crucial moment.

The train is crowded on a Saturday, the bodies pressed close on either side of him not doing anything to help the sweat slicking the entirety of his back and the backside of his knees. He feels like he's vibrating inside his skin—he's transcended anger, gone beyond confusion and arrived at the kind of manic energy that can best be described as 'electrical storm'. He doesn't really know what to do with the feeling except let it carry him the six blocks to Steve's apartment building, up the four floors, and right to Steve's unassuming shit-brown door. Taking a deep breath, he raps his knuckles against the wood and....nothing. He waits for one minute, watching the second hand tick and straining his ears to hear any movement behind the door, and knocks again. Nothing.

Did he really haul his ass all the way here without considering the possibility that Steve wouldn't be home at 9:37am on a Saturday? 

He's just lifting his hand to knock for one last ditch effort—maybe Steve was in the shower, or asleep, or on the can—when he hears someone stomping up the stairs. It's an older woman with short gray hair and the kind of sinewy body that looks like it's made of beef jerky and bubblegum, wearing a pair of eye-searing fuschia leggings and a muscle tank that reads _I'm Not Drunk, Today Was Leg Day_. 

She gives him a quick once over and smiles knowingly. "You looking for Steve, honey?"

He nods. "You know when he'll be back?"

She shakes her head, sticking her hand into the neck of her shirt and...okay, digging around in her own boobs and fishing out a keyring the size of her fist, which she pulls out with a jangle. Jesus, that can't be comfortable. "Probably working," she says, without looking back at him as she opens her door. "Poor kid. Check Erskine's, he's usually there on Saturdays."

Bucky doesn't know what the hell Erskine's is, but he nods and thanks her before she can smell the stranger-danger crazy on him, and clomps back down the stairs. He whips out his phone as soon as he's back on the street, and it turns out that Erskine's is a comic shop. Which tracks. He has a brief moment of indecision, chewing his lip and trying to decide if he has enough time to hike the five blocks to the shop and still make it to brunch on time. But his schedule says _9:30am - 10:30am: give notebook back to Steve_ , so he's still well within parameters. 

More than anything, he knows if he doesn't do it now, let this momentum carry him eight blocks west, he'll never do it at all. He'll drop the notebook in the mail and go back to not looking at Steve, wondering every day they sit across from each other if he's still drawing his face on the soldier.

It only takes him seven minutes to get to the shop. The storefront windows are painted with what Bucky figures are comic book characters—at least, he recognizes the obvious, iconic ones and assumes the rest are the same. The door jingles loudly when pushes it open, and Bucky winces automatically, though it doesn't really matter; the store is small and cramped, with shelves and crates of comics and memorabilia taking up nearly every inch of real estate. Bucky sees a blond head turn in his direction from across the room, and his eyes meet Steve's for one long, stomach-dropping second. Steve gives him a practiced Friendly Neighborhood Customer Service look and says, "let me know if I can help you find anything," and goes back to talking with another customer without betraying any spark of recognition.

Which Bucky knows is bullshit. The guy has drawn his face in detail no fewer than twelve times. Nice try, asshole. Bucky rolls his eyes and pretends to look through some comics down the aisle from Steve and the other customer while trying not to blatantly stare. 

Seeing Steve outside the train brings a weird moment of cognitive dissonance; in the carefully curated material he keeps in the more PG-13 mental filing cabinet, Steve looms large—thick arms, broad shoulders, a cocky grin and a spread-legged swagger from his seat across from him. He is a curiosity, an aesthetically pleasing object Bucky has studied in tiny stolen glances from the corner of his eye. But here in the wild, where Bucky can look at him head on, Steve is...diminished. He's smaller, a little on the short side, and infinitely more human; exhaustion and something that might be pain written in every line of his body. Under Steve's customer service mask there's an unhappy set to his mouth and a haunted look in his eyes, and he's so pale his dark circles look more like bruises. He looks like he's remaining upright by sheer force of will alone, and Bucky doesn't know how the other guy can carry on a conversation about fucking Superman when Steve looks like he's three seconds from keeling over.

Bucky feels suddenly ashamed. It was a dick move to try to confront someone at work anyway, and in the face of whatever Steve is clearly struggling with, what do a few drawings matter? He doesn't have the heart to pile more on this guy's plate. Bucky can ask him about them another time—next time Steve's on the train, maybe, if he doesn't look so wrung out.

He moves as quickly and quietly as possible toward the checkout counter, pulling out the sketchbook from his bag and laying it next to the register. His eyes catch on a handwritten sign on neon yellow cardstock screaming _FREE - TAKE ONE_ beside small stack of comics on the counter with what is definitely Steve's Frisbee Guy in living color on the cover. He's blond and blue-eyed and wearing a costume that looks like a pick up truck in Texas threw up American flags on it, and he's flinging his—yep, red white and blue frisbee toward the viewer. Wow. Bucky risks a glance toward Steve, relieved to find his attention still on the Superman Enthusiast, and slides a copy into his bag before moving quickly and quietly out the door.

He's not sure he takes a full breath again until he's on the train back to Bed-Stuy.


	2. Chapter 2

"Dude, you have _got_ to chill out," Sam says, following Steve into the gym.

"I'm fine," Steve grits out, heading for the heavy bags in the back. Goldies is pretty empty this time of day, just a couple of the regulars hanging out and talking shit. He gives them a once over, wondering if any of them would be in the mood to get in the ring with him, but it's just Ernie with the bum shoulder and Frank who can't spar for shit anyway. He'd ask Sam, but he's already annoyed with Steve for pushing to tack on that extra mile in the park this morning.

"Sure, this is what fine looks like," Sam says, watching Steve tape up, his arms crossed. "You look like shit, Rogers. When's the last time you got some solid sleep?"

Steve shrugs. "I sleep fine, _mom_." He flinches reflexively before the word is even all the way out of his mouth. "When I have the fucking time." Between Erskine's and the shifts he's started picking up at the bar, he catches sleep when and where he can—even on trains, apparently. He's still pissed about that, can feel the heat of embarrassment churning in his gut along with everything else. Of all the people who could have found his sketchbook, it had to be that guy? Thanks universe, you absolute _dick_.

He runs his hand over the bag to still its slow rotation on the chain, and breathes deep. He hurts all over—head, ribs, spine. There's a catch in his chest that tells him he'll be in worse pain soon if he doesn't slow down, but his heart is beating so hard and fast he's going to tear his skin off if he doesn't keep moving.

The first punch is like the first full breath after an attack: mindless desperation and then relief. By the fourth an ache is beginning to bloom in his knuckles, singing up his forearm to his shoulder with every dull thud of impact, and that too is a relief. He lets the rhythm of it empty him out, fill him up until his focus distills to his fist against canvas, the stretch of his obliques, the twist of his hips. _One two jab cross. One two jab cross. One two—_

Sam is suddenly in his face, holding the heavy bag still. " _Steve_ ," he says, an urgent note to his voice. For a moment there's nothing in Steve but the aggression, the need to be moving, to be _doing_ , and he almost doesn't catch himself before he follows through on the punch. His next breath gets caught on something sharp and jagged in his chest, and the world bleeds back into focus just enough for him to realize why Sam looks so fucking worried.

Steve's wheezing, choking and straining against the weight on his chest, the fist closing around his over-inflated lungs.

"Jesus christ, Steve," he hears Sam distantly, and then there's the familiar press of plastic on his lips, between his teeth, Sam's warm hand cupping Steve's own over the inhaler until his brain engages enough to depress the canister and breathe deep. Once. Twice. Three times. By the tenth his chest begins to open, his lungs expanding. Mindlessly, he links his hands behind his head and blinks up at the stained ceiling tiles, taking in deep, even breaths the way she taught him. He hears her steady, calm voice in his head, " _Come on, Stevie, that's it. With me. In two three, out two three. There you go. In two three…"_

"Fuck," he croaks. He takes off his fogged up glasses and drags a hand over the mess of sweat and tears on his face, the lines of tape on his palm scraping over his wet skin.

"I swear to god you're going to make me go prematurely gray, Rogers," Sam says, breathing hard himself. He squeezes Steve's shoulder, and Steve hates the way he wants to lean into it. Just for a second. Just until he's got his legs back under him again. Instead, he shrugs Sam's hand away and smirks.

"You're an EMT in _Brooklyn_ , I gotta be the least fucked up thing you see all day," he says, biting through the tape on his palm and peeling it off. The faint wheeze lingering behind his words does nothing to reinforce his cockiness, but he's nothing if not committed to that particular character flaw. 

Sam shakes his head, still with that look of concern and pity that makes Steve want to throw another punch. "Fucked up covers a lot of ground, man," is all he says, though, and hands Steve his water bottle.

Steve takes a long drink, rinsing the sharp taste of albuterol from his tongue. You'd think by now they'd have learned how to make it cherry flavored or something. He rolls the stiffness from his shoulders, knowing his back is going to be fucked for days now after tensing up like that. "You ready to go? I'm starving."

Sam rolls his eyes. "Am I ready? I've been ready since you ran my ass ragged in the park an hour ago. Let's get the fuck out of here before you keel over and I have give you mouth to mouth."

Steve waggles his brows, grateful Sam's decided not to make a big deal out of it. "You want a kiss all you gotta do is ask, Sam."

"Let me just get a shot of penicillin first. I know where that mouth's been."

Steve grins. "Best mouth in Brooklyn, ask anyone."

"Yeah, that's the problem, man. I _can_ ask anyone," Sam says, laughing when Steve gets up close and purses his lips. "Stay back, slut." He shoves a hand against Steve's sweaty forehead, pushing him away.

They go to the cheap ramen place up the block, and Steve hands over his last ten dollars until payday with a bitter twist to his mouth.

He doesn't resent his poverty, not exactly. He's spent his life barely scraping by—his mom did her best, but an RN's salary can only stretch so far as a single mom with a kid who had chronic health issues, and he spent a couple years as a poor art student before everything went to shit and he dropped out—but this is a level beyond anything he's known. It never stops being frustrating to work so hard every goddamn day and still have barely enough to make rent and oh, also still eat. He doesn't regret dropping out and he doesn't regret the second job he took on, but every goddamn time he writes another check to another doctor who failed them, he wants to punch something. 

_Fuck_. He drags a hand down his face and settles into the booth across from Sam. With every passing moment he feels the adrenaline ebb and the exhaustion settle back into his bones. He knows he's got to get some sleep before his afternoon shift at the shop and then working tables until four, but walking into that empty apartment always makes him want to walk right back out again. It's too quiet, too...familiar. There should be a mark, a scar, a sign on it somewhere. But no amount of packing up boxes and shoving them into the empty back bedroom makes it feel any less like a tomb masquerading as his childhood home. He should move back in with Sam, but as much as he hates it, he can't quite make himself walk away. Not yet.

"You wanna tell me what's got you so wound up today?" Sam asks when their bowls of tonkotsu have been delivered. "Besides," he grimaces, gesturing with his chopsticks, "you know, the obvious."

Steve swallows down a mouthful of noodle. "You know how I told you I left that sketchbook on the train the other day? A guy brought it into the shop yesterday."

"No shit?" Sam says, eyebrows going up. "I'd have put money on that thing being gone forever."

Steve nods. "Yeah, me too. I almost fucking wish, though. Because turns out the guy who found it? Is the guy I've been drawing as the Soldier."

"Holy shit." Sam barks out a laugh and nearly chokes on a noodle. "Only you. What did he say?"

"Nothing!" Steve says, flinging out his arms in irritation and nearly knocking over his water glass. "He just dropped it off at the fucking counter when I was talking to another customer and booked it."

"Do you think he saw the drawings?" Sam asks.

Steve makes a face. "He had to have opened it to get my address. Ellie said she saw a big dude outside my door and told him to look for me at Erskine's. What are the chances he stuck with the first page and didn't flip through?" Steve knows he wouldn't have been able to help himself, if their positions were reversed. And granted, all the Soldier stuff was at the very back so there's a slim chance that maybe he didn't bother looking that far, but Steve's not going to bank on that.

"Well, there's your opening with him, at least," Sam says, taking a sip of water. "You've had a crush on this guy for weeks, now you have to to talk to him."

Steve makes a face. "I didn't say I had a crush, I said I wanted him to sit on my face and crush my skull with his thighs."

"Close enough," Sam says.

"And anyway, it's not like 'hey thanks for bringing back my sketchbook, how'd you like all seven hundred drawings of your face? Promise I'm not a stalker, I just thought you had the right aesthetic for this brainwashed assassin I'm writing' is a great opening."

"Yeah come to think of it that is pretty fucked up of you," Sam says. "You weren't going to ask him before you put it up on the site?"

Steve shifts uncomfortably. If he's honest, he hadn't even thought about it, and that doesn't sit well with him now. He sighs. "Definitely going to have to tell him about it now and get his permission." He pauses, a thought occurring to him. "Think he'll want a cut of the subscriptions for the Soldier's issues?" He doesn't make a lot off the subscriptions for his webcomic, but even that little bit is necessary to keeping the precarious Jenga tower that is his life from crashing down around him. "That would suck."

"I don't know, man. I wouldn't blame him if he did, though. It is his face."

"Yeah," Steve says with a sigh, slumping against the back of the booth. "I guess."

**:: :: ::**

The Low Bar is slow as usual on a Sunday night. Part hipster bar, part diner, it's the bane of Steve's entire existence. He's grateful he found a job with hours he could slot in alongside Erskine's and his treks to Manhattan, but Sundays, man. If he has to work shitty hours at a shitty job in order to pay his shitty bills, he should at least get good tips out of it. Unfortunately, he's new enough he still gets stuck with the shifts no one else wants, and that usually means he spends his Sunday nights waiting a handful of tables and helping Josie, the bartender and owner, finish her crossword puzzle. At least he gets some drawing time out of it.

Tonight he's got three tables; a group of drunk girls clearly helping someone in their group drink away some boy problems, a guy in a tweed jacket sipping whiskey and reading _Infinite Jest_ —jesus christ—and very obviously trying to catch one of the girls' eyes, and another couple of girls playing some card game at one of the tables by the bookshelves in the back corner.

Steve holds back a yawn. It's one am, and he's got three more hours before he can make the trek home and collapse for a couple hours before he's gotta be at Erskine's again. At the very least, though, he gets free food during his shift, and consoles himself with a plate of nachos in the kitchen, keeping an eye on his tables through the pick up window and making sure Tweed Serious doesn't start any creepy shit with the girls. He's just shoveled a giant bite in his mouth when the door swings open and in walks—oh fuck his life. Steve inhales a piece of tortilla chip and nearly suffocates for the second time in one day when Train Guy strides right up to the bar and honest to god _smiles_ at Josie.

Steve tries to choke quietly, chugging his glass of water and straining his ears to catch what Train Guy is saying. He must know Josie, his smile and posture too easy for anything else. He's also unfairly hot for someone who looks like they just rolled out of bed, wearing soft blue pants and a gray hoodie with the empty left sleeve knotted at the shoulder. Steve's never seen his hair pulled back before, and without permission his brain begins committing to memory the clean line of his jaw, the way it softens just a bit under his chin, the slope of his temple and the curve of his ear. His fingers twitch around the ghost of a pencil.

"Haven't seen you in here so late in awhile, Bucky," Josie is saying. "Don't you have work tomorrow?"

Train Guy— _Bucky_? The fuck kind of name is that?—shrugs. "Couldn't sleep. Craving some of your waffles."

"Alright, but no coffee," Josie says, pointing an accusing finger. "I'm gonna get you some chamomile and if you're still here when we close, I'm driving you home."

Buck rolls his eyes. "I'm like two blocks away."

"Don't argue with me, kid," she says, waving him away toward one of the booths. When he's shuffled off, she says without turning around, "I feel you lurking back there, Steven. Break's over, go settle up with the d-bag at four. I've got table seven."

He cashes out Tweed Serious—fifteen percent after spending three fuckin hours here, what an absolute _knob_ —and gets the girls at table three a round of coffee and fries, doing his best not to stare in the direction of Buck the Train Guy. He can't see him in any case, huddled as he is in the back booth. When the girls have cashed out and he's printing up the check for his last table, Josie catches him. "I'm going to start closing out in the back. Doubt we'll get anyone else in here tonight. You can start cleaning up out here and take off early if you want."

"Sure, okay," he says, grateful for the extra hour of sleep he might get while irritated by what feels like a wasted effort of a shift. "What about seven?" He nods toward Train Guy's booth.

"On the house," Josie says. "Do me a favor and check in on him, though. Doubt he'll need anything more, but whatever he wants is fine. Don't let him leave any money either."

"Uh, okay," Steve says, palms already beginning to sweat at the prospect of talking to him. Better here in an empty bar than the train though, he guesses.

Steve waits until Josie's in the back and the card players have left before shuffling over to the booth. The guy is paging through what looks like a comic, his forearm resting on the table, long, thick fingers fiddling with the corner of the page. As Steve gets closer, the page gets...familiar. He knows those colors, he knows the pattern of those panels. Holy shit.

Without thinking too hard about it, he slides onto the seat opposite the man and says, "So, what do you think?"

Buck looks up, blue eyes startled and wide, and blurts out, "what are you doing here?" He seems to take in Steve's black t-shirt with the logo and the apron in the same instant, and then actually shakes his head as though to clear it, a faint pink blush staining his cheeks. Cute. "Oh, you work here. Weird."

Steve frowns, his back up immediately. Is this guy being a dick from the jump? "Why's it weird?"

"You know, it's like—what's it called. The thing where you learn a new word and then start seeing it everywhere?"

"Baader-Meinhof," Steve says, relaxing. "Seeing me everywhere, huh?" 

Bucky nods over the rim of his mug. "Didn't expect to run into you at Josie's place is all."

"She your sister or something?"

Buck laughs, and it makes the skin around his mouth and eyes crease. This close Steve can see Buck is a few years older than him, early thirties maybe, with lines around his eyes and bracketing his mouth. Given the missing arm, he wonders if they're from laughter or pain. His mom—

He cuts off that thought before it can form.

"No, Josie's just a pain in my ass," Buck says. "Met her through the VA."

"Oh," Steve says. "That's cool." He hadn't known Josie was a vet too, but now that he thinks about it, it makes sense. After an awkward beat, Steve reaches his hand across the table. "I'm Steve, by the way...which I guess you already know. Thanks for bringing my sketchbook to the shop the other day. I didn't expect to see it again."

Buck's hand is firm and warm in his. "Bucky," he says, and Steve doesn't know what his face does, but it makes the other man laugh. "It's a family name," he says with a self-deprecating smile. "Never gets easier telling it to people, though."

"Like your real actual on your birth certificate name?" Steve asks incredulously. "Your parents belong in jail, man. That's child cruelty."

The minute tightening around Bucky's eyes are the only indicator that Steve's said something wrong, but all he says is, "real actual birth certificate name is James." 

"Boring," Steve jokes, and Bucky looks startled before his eyes crinkle into a small smile that Steve finds more adorable than he should. He nods toward the comic still open on the table. "How're you liking Cap?"

"Uh, it's great. I actually just read all the other issues on your site this afternoon," Bucky says, and the quiet praise lights a little fire in Steve's chest. He can hear the implied _but_ hanging in the air, and still he can't help the knee-jerk pride at someone liking his work enough to seek out more. He just put a bunch of money, relatively speaking, into getting a few copies of the first issue of _Nomad_ professionally printed in hopes that it will be lure enough to encourage people into following the link to the full webcomic and net him some new subscribers. It's been a slow trickle so far, but any little bit helps.

And then Bucky drops the other shoe. "Just wondering where my guy with all the guns is, though."

Despite knowing it was coming, Steve feels his ears burn at the call out. "So you saw that…"

Buck raises a brow. "I'd apologize for being a snoop, but I guess that makes us even now."

Steve cringes. He feels wrong-footed and given his usual response to that is to double down on his asshole tendencies, he's not really sure what his move should be. He falls back on the second of his defaults, and lets his mouth curl into an appreciative smirk while his eyes flit exaggeratedly over Bucky. "Honey, with a face like that? How could I resist?"

Bucky rolls his eyes. "That line usually work for you?"

Steve grins, grateful he's playing along. "Don't usually need lines, pal."

"I bet, champ." Bucky gives a tight smile and lets his own eyes wander, and Steve feels the familiar tightening in his belly and quickening of his blood that usually means he's about to blow someone in a dirty club bathroom. He knows very intimately how clean the bathrooms are here, though, and he wouldn't mind the opportunity to get his mouth on what he can only assume is some quality dick in an upscale location for a change.

"You didn't answer my question, though," Bucky says evenly, pulling Steve's thoughts out of his pants. "Those drawings of me going up on the site too?"

Steve draws himself up, bracing for whatever comes next. "I guess that's up to you now."

Bucky gives him a pointed look. "And it wasn't before?"

"Honestly?" Steve says, rubbing the back of his neck. "I didn't even think about it. It was shitty of me, maybe, but I never considered you'd ever see it."

"Fair enough," Bucky says, leaning back against the booth and taking a long drink of his tea before speaking again. "If I say no, what will you do?"

"Cry?" Steve says, and then shrugs. "I'll redraw it, of course. I'm a dick, not a monster." 

Bucky seems to consider his next words carefully. "I guess it depends on why you drew me, specifically," he says.

He asks so quietly, so seriously, that Steve finds the truth on the tip of his tongue. He swallows it back and smirks at him instead. It's easier. "I told you, you've got a good face," he says with a shrug.

"That all?" Bucky asks, and there's an urgent edge to it. "You didn't—it's not—the character's not... based on me, or anything?"

Steve shakes his head, confused. "I don't even know you, how could he be? I've been planning this arc for awhile, you just happened to be sitting across from me when I started drawing him." It's close enough to the truth, anyway. The Soldier has always been part of the plan.

"What about the arm?"

"The arm?" Steve asks.

"Did he always have that prosthetic, or did you plan that because of—" he shrugs his left shoulder, where the empty sleeve is knotted.

Steve swallows hard. "I uh...yeah, I guess that's modeled after you. Sort of."

Something hardens in Bucky's face. "Okay," he says after a moment. He looks down at his hand curled tight around the thick porcelain mug, and blows out a long breath. "The thing is, Steve—and look, I know you didn't mean it to come off like this, but I gotta tell you as a guy who's dealing with the aftermath of getting his arm blown off? It's real unnerving to see myself reimagined as some kind of superhuman soldier with a weaponized prosthetic."

Steve frowns, taken aback. "I'm not sure… I mean,” he says, licking his lips and struggling for words, “why is that a bad thing? Don't you wish you still had your arm?"

"Every day," Bucky says quietly. "But the reality is I _don't_ have it anymore, and it's taken a lot of time to come to terms with that, along with all the other fucked up shit that comes with having served. I'm not a soldier anymore, and I don't want to be. So seeing myself drawn that way was very uncomfortable for me." He says it so quietly, so precisely, that Steve knows it must be costing him something, and the bottom drops out of his stomach.

"Oh god. I never would have—" He closes his eyes briefly, wishing for all the world his sketchbook had been left to rot on that goddamn train. "I never thought about it like that. I'm sorry." He scratches at the back of his neck, and jiggles his legs, a restless energy coiling under his skin as he debates with himself, finally deciding at the very least, he owes this guy some honesty.

He doesn't look at Bucky, can't look up from the salt shaker he's spinning between his hands. "So I've got um...I had what some people would call it a disability too. It's nothing on your level obviously, but I had to have a couple surgeries and had some mobility issues and—anyway." He waves his hand, the details don't matter. "Cap is like, I don't know…" he pauses, trying to gather his thoughts. "I've been drawing him since I was a kid, and sometimes it helped to imagine myself that way—what it would be like if there was some magic cure to make me healthier, stronger, more normal, I guess." It feels stupid to say it out loud, even stupider to say it to a stranger who has it so much worse than he ever did. "So, I guess it didn't really occur to me that someone might have a different perspective."

Bucky nods, the tension in him easing a bit. "We all deal with our shit in different ways. It's okay. I know you didn't mean any harm by it."

Steve licks his lips, feeling the frantic need to explain himself, to make this right. "Would it help if I told you that the arm was placed on him without permission by his nazi captors, and now he's using it to kill them?"

Bucky's brows go up. "Hydra, you mean?"

"Yep," Steve says, pleased Bucky's followed along enough to know. "You read all the issues?"

"Yeah," he says. "So the Soldier is the one taking out all of Cap's targets?"

"Yeah, he's got a real hard-on for vengeance at the moment, and Cap's always just one step behind him. They'll meet up soon, though. Soldier's first issue will be up in a couple weeks." Steve pauses. "Well, uh. If it's still okay to use those drawings? If not—I get it. I can redraw those panels, it's not a big deal." It would be a huge deal actually, weeks of work at least, but that's not Bucky's problem.

Bucky leans back in the booth. "You can use them on one condition."

"Okay?" Steve braces himself.

"You've got to learn how to draw someone holding a gun properly, man. Cap's form is a tragedy, and if you're gonna use my face you can't embarrass me like that."

Steve barks out a laugh that's more than fifty percent relief. "Okay, wow. I had no idea I was making a fool of myself over here."

Bucky shrugs and grins. "At least Cap uses his little frisbee most of the time, and there's no known form for that bullshit."

"Hey," Steve says with a laugh. "Come on, the shield is unique. He's got a tactical advantage with it."

"It's certainly...a _choice_ ," Bucky allows, eyes crinkling. "Although I have to say, he uses it pretty effectively. That fight in the elevator? That was almost pornographic, dude."

Steve's just opening his mouth to say something truly filthy when Josie pokes her head out from the office. "What are you guys still doing here?" Steve jumps in his seat, startled to realize he'd completely forgotten where he even was. He still has to mop the floors for christ's sake. So much for getting home early; it's nearly three.

"Sorry, Jo," Bucky says. "I'm going."

"You too, Steve. I'll get the rest."

"No, it's okay—" he begins to protest, but she gives him a Look. "Okay, thanks. I'll see you tomorrow."

He and Bucky shuffle silently out the door. "Guess I won't see you on the train later, huh?" Bucky says when they're on the street.

"Oh shit, man. You gonna get any sleep at all?"

Bucky shrugs. "Probably wouldn't have even if i was home."

"Bad night, huh?"

"I've had better."

"Well, hope you get a better one soon," Steve says lamely. "And hey listen...you want to read what I've got of the Soldier's story? You know, for accuracy and uh, anything that wouldn't sit right with you? Since I'm using your face and all."

Bucky grins, his eyes crinkling and his mouth curling into what might almost be dimples, and Steve feels his brain catalogue it in the way that means he'll find himself sketching the shape of it soon. "Sure, that would be cool."

"Okay, gimme your number. I'll send you a dropbox link."

Bucky grins. "You wanted my number all you had to do was ask, pal."

Steve feels his cheeks color, and hopes it's dark enough that Bucky doesn't see. "I wanted your number, I would have had it already."

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky says, but rattles off his number anyway. "See you on the train, Steve." He smiles over his shoulder and walks off into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remaining chapters will be up later today, thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for the record, i don't know much about comics, and even less about the MTA. conflicting reports on whether or not you'd be able to hold a text conversation on a train, which i very lazily took as confirmation that the way i've written this is at least 5% plausible. NYers: please suspend disbelief accordingly.

"Hey," Steve says, sliding into the seat beside Bucky on the train. 

Bucky's autonomic nervous system, about the only part of him awake, blares a proximity alarm and it takes nearly half a second for his tired brain to come online and register that it's Steve. Which doesn't do that much to relax him, actually. Half asleep, the first thing his brain supplies is that Steve smells good, which is not a helpful thought at 4:27am on a Tuesday. Or ever, actually.

"Hey," he says, and is grateful that at least his voice is still sleep-rough enough to disguise any awkwardness.

"You look through those files I sent you yet?" Steve asks. 

"You mean the gigantic dropbox folder you sent like eight hours ago?" Bucky says, and then feels like an asshole when Steve visibly deflates. From the few texts they've exchanged, he's beginning to understand that beneath the cocky frat boy exterior lies a pretty intense little art nerd, which is more endearing that Bucky is prepared to acknowledge, even in his own brain. "I looked at a couple of them," he admits. 

"And?" Steve says, turning toward Bucky more fully in his seat, his knee brushing against the outside of Bucky's thigh.

Bucky swallows hard. Steve's glasses are smudged, and beyond them his eyes are red-rimmed and tired looking. His hair is still wet at the roots, and he smells—clean, like soap and fresh laundry, and Bucky has the sudden thought that if he leaned forward and pressed his face to Steve's neck it would still be shower-warm. 

"It all looks really good," Bucky says. "You're an amazing artist." He doesn't really know what else to say, what kind of feedback Steve is looking for. The folder had been full of high-resolution pages of the next issue and the entire outline for the Soldier's arc. And while Bucky obviously knew what was coming and had reconciled himself to it, it was still jarring to see himself in full color, bristling with weapons, with hard eyes above a menacing mask and a shiny silver arm that could block bullets and knock opponents out cold. 

Bucky spent nearly ten years as a ranger, and he was damn good at what he did, but he never could have dropped thirty guys in a firefight and then taken down six trained operatives in hand to hand without any backup. The lack of realism made it easier to handle—despite his competence on the page, the Soldier's form was frankly laughable, and the scenarios so over the top that he found it easy to distance himself from the character, despite their resemblance. 

He wishes he could say the same about Cap's storyline, though. Cap's progression from the wide-eyed, optimistic patriot willing to give his life for his country to the tired, disillusioned man who's realized the organization he's shed and spilled blood for is as corrupt as those he's fought against hits Bucky right where he lives.

He'd never been the blind patriot, just dumb kid who'd gotten fast talked into something that'd seemed exciting and meaningful, and a way around dipping into the insurance money to pay for school. _Travel the world_ , they'd said. _Learn new skills_ , they'd said. _Get your degree paid for_ , they'd said. And like an idiot, he'd believed them. No one ever mentioned the taste of burning oil that would linger in the back of his throat, the terrified eyes of the civilians, the broken bodies that would haunt his nightmares, and the blood on his hands he'll never be able to wipe clean.

Fuck. Those are not thoughts he's going to let himself have before the sun's up on a Tuesday. 

"You still don't know shit about handling a gun, though," he says, and he doesn't mean it to come off flirtatious, but the sight of the slow, filthy smile spreading across Steve's face at 4:30am makes something in his gut draw up tight and heavy. 

"I have it on good authority I'm an _excellent_ gun handler," Steve says with a smirk Bucky wants to bite right off his face. This cocky little fuck. It should be illegal to look so good this early. "But maybe you could give me a demonstration, if you're such an expert." 

He looks at Bucky through his lashes, a practiced look Bucky can tell, but still it makes the words trip over each other and tangle up in his throat. He doesn't know what to say. He doesn't know how to flirt, not like this. Not anymore. So he just raises a pointed eyebrow at his empty left sleeve.

Steve's eyes go wide and color splashes over his cheeks, blotching down his neck. "I—shit. I'm so sorry."

Bucky can't help it, he laughs out loud, at 4:31am on a Tuesday. What the fuck. "I'm just fucking with you." 

"Asshole," Steve says, a grin spreading over his face. It's a real one, not the cocky smirk or a flirtatious twist of his lips, and it makes him look younger, lighter. Bucky thinks he might be the brightest thing he'll see all day, and it makes something catch in his chest to see it. It's one of those small moments he knows will stay with him, and for once it's not due to the hyper-focus of adrenaline or the indelible impact of trauma—it's just him, smiling with a near-stranger on a dirty train before the sun's up. 

"So you gonna teach me how to handle a gun, Buck?"

"Uh," Bucky says, something hot and shivery slipping through him. "Sure? I mean you can probably just look it up on youtube or something."

"No way, man," Steve says, just as the announcement for his stop blares. "I demand in-person instruction from the expert." He stands up as the train barrels into the station, steadying himself with one hand on the railing. His shirt rides up, exposing a sliver of skin above his waistband, and Bucky feels his focus narrow to those few inches of pale skin, dotted with faint freckles and golden hair. Bucky has the almost irresistible urge to touch. With his mouth. To drag his teeth along the taut skin stretched between Steve's hip bones, suck a mark into the pale, perfect skin. Which is not an urge he's had in a very long time. It's a foreign enough sensation that it pulls his focus back where it should be, his eyes dragging up Steve's body to meet laughing blue eyes. 

"How about tonight?" Steve says. "I'm off at seven, if you want to come over."

He wants to, he really wants to, but…it's Tuesday, which means it's Bucky's turn to cook. It says so on his schedule, five to six pm blocked out with _Cook Dinner_ , and six pm to eight pm reserved for _Watching Mountain Monsters With Clint_. He knows Clint wouldn't care—would be ecstatic even, if Bucky ditched him to hang out with someone else. But the thought of it makes his skin crawl and his stomach twist, and he wants to scream at himself. He hates knowing his responses to things are irrational, but being unable to do anything about it.

Sometimes it feels like he's trapped inside a malfunctioning machine, running around inside his own brain, hitting buttons and pulling levers trying to get it to work properly while the machinery hisses and sparks. 

Bucky swallows, clearing his dry throat. "Uh, can't tonight. I have plans with my roommate. Tomorrow?" He can rework his schedule for tomorrow, and it's Clint's night to cook so if he gets out of eating whatever version of Tater Tot Surprise Clint comes up with, even better.

"Can't tomorrow, I'm working—shit, I gotta go," Steve says, rushing toward the doors. "I'll text you!"

"Fuck," Bucky says out loud, knocking his head back against the seat.

**:: :: ::**

He gets home at 4:07pm after an absolutely riveting day of sorting mail—one of the only jobs his VA counselor could find for him, down one arm and too fucked in the head to manage to cash in on that GI bill just yet. It's not bad work, and he knows he couldn't handle anything more mentally taxing right now anyway, but it's a little demoralizing to get home twelve hours and four train rides later with nothing accomplished except the satisfaction of knowing the right mail went to the right departments. Which, if he's being honest, is not all that fucking satisfying.

But whatever. Lots of people in his position don't have jobs at all. He's grateful for the paycheck and this small step toward becoming a fully functioning person again. Eventually he hopes to be the kind of functional person who can make spontaneous plans with a guy he is fairly sure—kind of sure….at least forty percent sure—would let Bucky put his mouth on him, but he's not going to dwell on that right now. That's a goal to work toward in the future, and what he's got to focus on tonight is dinner. Last weekend when he was trolling Pinterest for dinner ideas he saved a recipe for Lemony Chicken Stir Fry he's pretty excited to try. 

This is his life now: bullet journals and Pinterest. He's basically adopted the identity of a suburban housewife, missing only alcoholism and the Live Laugh Love sign in the kitchen, and maybe a yoga addiction.

Learning to cook with one arm had been...an adventure. At first it'd seemed more trouble than it was worth, but given that so far he hasn't found an affordable prosthetic he doesn't hate more than the inconvenience and existential horror of being down his dominant arm, he had to either embrace it or resign himself to living off ramen or whatever culinary tragedy Clint threw together. And he's not fond of food poisoning or slowly killing himself via sodium overdose, so cooking it was. 

Once he discovered the truly fucking wild world of assistive devices and embraced them with what felt like the entirety of his disability checks those first few months, he found he actually really likes it. The roll knife is a long way from the ka-bar he used to handle with ease, but the special cutting board with all the stabilizers and attachments is kind of cool, actually. It's fun to spend his Sunday afternoons looking for new recipes to try, and it's soothing to follow precise instructions and come out—most of the time—with something delicious at the end.

By the time Clint gets home, Bucky's got the veggies prepped, the chicken sauteed and the sauce simmering and is feeling pretty damn good about it. At least this kind of work has tangible results, and unless Clint steamrolls through it all, it'll keep on having those results right into tomorrow's lunch break. 

"Smells good," Clint says, shuffling to the fridge for a couple of beers, neatly uncapping them both and sliding one over to Bucky. He leans against the counter and sighs the sigh of a man who splits his days between a math classroom and a gym full of hormonal middle schoolers, and takes a long pull from the bottle. 

"Long day at the office, champ?" Bucky claps him on the shoulder on the way to grab clean plates out of the dishwasher. 

"Ugh," Clint says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Softball unit started today."

Bucky chokes on a laugh. "Do you need the ice pack?" 

"Not yet," he mutters, taking the lid off the pot of rice and spooning a couple of hefty portions on the plates Bucky sets on the counter. "So far just the existential dread every time I step onto the field."

Bucky tries not to notice how easy it is for Clint, holding the pot of rice with one hand and spooning with the other. It's not fair, in any case. He doesn't have to wear hearing aids, after all. Although in Clint's line of work, maybe being able to physically mute the world occasionally is a perk. "Why don't you just wear a cup?"

Clint turns to look at him, frowning like Bucky'd suggested he go to school in full tac gear. "You can't show any weakness to these little assholes, Buck," he says. "Bees, dogs, and middle schoolers: they can all smell the fear on you and they will have _no mercy_. Constant vigilance is my only recourse."

Bucky laughs, bringing the pan of chicken and vegetables over. "I guess it's a good thing you and Nat don't want kids. Your little guys probably already have brain damage."

"Hey fuck you," Clint says through a mouthful of rice he scooped straight from the pot, which he then immediately spits it out into his hand. "Aw, fuck. Hot."

Bucky rolls his eyes and snags his beer from the counter. "Grab the plates, dumbass. I got forks out already."

They're halfway through an episode of Mountain Monsters when Bucky's phone buzzes in his pocket, startling them both. "Hey, not fair," Clint says. "If Nat's sending you Tinder screenshots again, I want in."

Bucky rolls his eyes and digs out his phone. "She's got to stop impersonating me on the internet, one of these days I'm actually going to run into one of these guys she's ghosted and it's gonna be real awkward for the both of us." 

It's not Nat, though. _**How about Thursday? I close at Erskine's, off at nine. Is that too late?**_

"Who's Steve?" Clint says right in Bucky's ear from where he's leaned over far enough to see the phone screen. "James Buckjamin Barnes, do you have a boyfriend you've been hiding from us?"

"No, it's the guy from the train—shit, I forgot to tell you." Between his early mornings and Clint's CE course on Monday nights, he hasn't had a chance. "I ran into him Sunday night at Josie's bar. He works there."

"Weird," Clint says. "Did you ask him about the drawings?"

Bucky catches him up, leaving out the hum of sexual tension he can still feel buzzing along his skin, because he's not in middle school anymore and he doesn't need to conference in his friends to figure out if a cute boy likes him. He's an adult. He can handle this. 

"And now he's asking if you want to come over and show him how to hold a gun?" Clint asks, eyebrow raised in a move Bucky knows damn well he picked up from Nat. 

"Yeah," Bucky says. "You think that means…" Damnit.

"That he wants to handle _your_ gun? Uh, yeah, Buck. Read the room," he says with a laugh. "You gonna let him?"

The confirmation makes his heart pound and his cheeks heat in a way that could be embarrassment or anticipation but feels more like an impending anxiety attack. He rubs his sweaty palms on his thighs and shrugs. "I don't know."

"It's okay if you're not ready for that," Clint says, shoveling in the last bit of his chicken mid-sentence because he's never met a manner in his life. "You don't have to jump on the first dick that gives you tingles. But also, don't keep yourself from good experiences just because it makes you nervous."

"Yeah, I know," Bucky says, rubbing his thumb absently over the neck of the bottle and trying to figure out how he feels. "I want to see where this goes, but...the tingles feel like such a big deal. It's the first time in a long time. I don't want to put that kind of pressure on anyone else."

Clint shrugs. "All the firsts are gonna feel big, though. That's unavoidable. First time you figured out how to button your pants one-handed we all cried on the bathroom floor, right?" Bucky groans. He doesn't miss the days of having to ask Nat or Clint to help him dress like a fucking toddler. "No shut up, it was a great moment. I'm tearing up right now just thinking about it."

"Oh my god, shut up."

"Jesus, excuse me for trying to have a nostalgic moment with my friend," Clint says, but he's laughing. "But seriously—what I mean is, now putting your pants on is just normal, right? You don't even think about it. This sort shit is the same. It's going to feel like, momentous no matter who it is, and putting off jumping back in isn't going to make it feel any less like a big deal at first. Probably the opposite."

"Yeah," Bucky says, feeling grateful that he has someone like Clint in his corner, someone who knew who Bucky was Before, and has had enough similar experiences to empathize with the After. 

"Bottom line, man," Clint says, downing the rest of his beer, "keeping yourself from experiences isn't going to make them any easier to deal with down the road. And if this guy is the one giving you your first pants feeling since you got back, why not let him be the one to rip that band-aid off your dick?"

"Jesus _christ_ , Clinton," Bucky says, inhaling a mouthful of rice. He takes a slug of beer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. "Thank you for that horrifying visual."

Clint flashes some finger guns. "That's what I'm here for." He turns back to the television. "Aw shit, we missed if they found Big Foot. Rewind it."

**:: :: ::**

Later, once he's redrawn his schedule for the week and feels more settled, Bucky texts Steve back.

_**Thursday works. Let me know where to meet you.** _

He sets his phone very deliberately on the lip of the tub, the furthest flat surface from him as he washes his face and brushes his teeth, and concentrates on slowing his heart rate. It's pretty fucking pathetic that he's spent the majority of his day fending off a low-grade anxiety attack at the prospect of making plans with a pretty boy, but this is his life now and no amount of nostalgia for the time he used to get his dick wet on the regular with a minimal amount of effort is going to change that. As his therapist would tell him, he's got to be present in the Now. 

Unfortunately, being present in this particular Now means that when his phone vibrates itself into the tub with a clatter, he startles hard enough to simultaneously deep throat his toothbrush and bruise his hip on the corner of the counter trying to grab it. It's just his _Go To Bed Now, Bucky_ alarm, though, which is great. It’s fine.

He is definitely dealing with this like a normal, human adult who has, in fact, had sex before. And okay, maybe the last time was three years ago, and maybe it wasn't so much sex as a three minute handjob behind a dusty humvee that left his dick feeling a little raw because there is no possible way to keep grit from getting _everywhere_ on a windy February afternoon in wartorn Manbij, but it still counts. 

The thought brings with it the sensation of cool air on his sweaty face, rain pinging on metal. There's a green field to his right, and beyond it a burning building. There's the taste of wet dirt and burning tires in his mouth, heavy boots on his feet, the weight of his rifle on his shoulder. Sweat prickling beneath his helmet, his heart beating against his ribs. He hears—

_No._

"No," he whispers to himself in the mirror, breathing hard and sweating. He makes himself catalogue the blue walls of the bathroom, the water-spot flecked shower door behind him, the sound of the running faucet. Long hair, not regulation. The beginnings of a beard. His flexes his sweaty hands on the cool marble of the counter, curls his bare toes into the soft mat beneath his feet. He takes five slow breaths. "Okay," he says. 

He pours his nightly pills directly into his mouth directly from the pill separator, and leans over the sink to take a long drink from the tap to wash them down. The water is cold, and it doesn't taste like metal. "Okay," he says again.

He counts the fifteen steps to his bedroom for the first time in months, and tries not to feel resentful that shit like this still has the power to throw him. He gets into his bed that smells like laundry detergent and his own shampoo—the fancy kind that smells like mint that Nat got him hooked on when he decided he wanted to grow his hair out even if it was totally impractical with one arm. He pulls the covers up to his neck and then worms one bare foot out from under it for temperature control, and turns on his white noise app. When he closes his eyes, he very deliberately does not think of the desert.

**:: :: ::**

It was a bad night. No nightmares that he can remember, but restless sleep that leaves him sore and tense in the morning. He swipes his alarm off and stumbles into the shower without bothering to open his eyes, and is up to a beady squint by the time he's dressed and shuffling into the kitchen for coffee. By the time he makes it to the train, he's mostly able to open his eyes all the way, and notices as he's putting in his headphones that he's got a text from Steve. Actually...several texts from Steve.

__**[4:08am] there's this coffee place down the block from the shop  
** [4:08am] Can't think of the name. Pretentious as fuck, but they have good coffee and don't mind people hanging out  
[4:09am] okay it's called The Green Bean. Don't judge me, it's really good  
[4:09am] shit, sorry i just realized it's 4am  
[4:09am] what am i talking about, you're probably already on the fucking train 

Bucky feels himself grinning like an idiot at his phone, but he can't quite manage to straighten his face as he types. 

_**Got me there. Do I even exist if I'm not on the train?  
Fine, I'll meet you at your hipster place. Please confirm they only make coffee from beans organically sourced and artisanally roasted by white dudes with dreadlocks and soul patches. I have standards.** _

The little typing bubble pops up immediately, which does nothing to diminish the cheesy situation on Bucky's face. _**I see you're already familiar with the place**_

 _ **Coffee is my passion**_ , Bucky texts back.

 _ **We gotta get you some new hobbies, Buck**_ , Steve responds. 

_**Like drawing strangers on trains?**_ , Bucky responds.

_**Only the hot ones, though. I too have standards.** _

Bucky blushes. _**Consider raising your standards if a half-asleep guy with one arm qualifies**_

**_A HOT half-asleep guy with one arm, though. You left out the important part._ **

Bucky nearly laughs out loud on the train. _**So what I am hearing is, you're only interested in me for my body.**_

 ** _Oh, was I being too subtle?_** Steve responds, and then: **_Shut up now, some of us have to sleep_**

 _ **See you on Thursday**_ , Bucky texts back, and it's dumb, but he's grinning all the way to work.

**:: :: ::**

Wednesday and Thursday simultaneously take three geological ages and three seconds, neither of which are enough time to make Bucky feel mentally prepared to see Steve again. He's jittery all day, sweaty palms and racing heart, and even though he redrew his schedule on Tuesday, it still feels like he's going off-script when he puts his shoes and jacket back on at 8:37pm on Thursday. At least Clint's not here to see him fumble with the laces on his boots and brush his hair three times, even if he knows the damp April air will turn it into frizzy waves the moment he steps outside.

It takes what feels like a force of will to get himself to open the door and walk down the stairs to the street, but once he's out of the building it's easier. It's drizzling slightly, and the air is just cold enough to make him feel each deliberate breath he pulls deep, and the crisp rhythm of his boots on the damp pavement is oddly soothing. It's good to be out of the house, to be on the street with other people. So much of the last couple years has been spent half asleep on early morning trains, or half asleep on mid-afternoon trains, he hardly ever has the energy—or frankly, a reason—to go out at night anymore. But it's only 8:45pm on a Thursday, and there are people spilling out of restaurants, laughing as they get into cabs. There's a man walking three tiny dogs, and a group of teenagers being loud on the corner in front of the bodega, teasing each other and sipping sodas. The city is alive tonight, and so is he. 

There is a couple walking in front of him, holding hands and bumping shoulders every other step. They stop to look in a shop window, and Bucky catches sight of the man's face as he passes them, looking down at the woman and smiling softly. It presses on something bruised in him, a tender ache flaring to life behind his breastbone. The image of the man's face stays with him all the way to the Green Bean, and he's relieved to see Steve's not there yet when he walks in. These are not thoughts that need to get tangled up with whatever pants feelings he's developing for that pretty blond hurricane. 

He's waiting for his coffee when the door jingles and Steve walks in. He looks exhausted, but the smile that crosses his face when he sees Bucky by the counter makes his chest go tight. _Oh no._

"Hey, Buck," Steve says, walking over and standing close, and that tightness unfurls into a flutter. He likes the way Steve shortens his name, the way it rolls off his tongue so easily. The shape it makes of his mouth—wow, okay, no. 

He takes a deep breath, but Steve is so close Bucky can feel the damp heat coming off him through his rain-spattered clothes. He's still just in his uniform from the shop—a red t-shirt at least a size too small that pulls attractively across his chest and shoulders. This close their height difference is obvious, and it makes something warm and dangerous flare to life in his chest to note that if he pulled Steve close, his head would rest perfectly on Bucky's shoulder.

Bucky clears his throat. "Sorry, I would have ordered you something too, but I don't know how you take it."

Steve grins, sharp and filthy. "Oh, I take it just about any way I can get it."

"I bet," Bucky murmurs, blushing and heart hammering but trying to keep up all the same. "But how you do you _like_ it?"

"Strong and sweet," Steve says, bending slightly to look at something in the pastry case and giving Bucky a fantastic and deliberate view of his firm, round ass because apparently it's Steve's one goal in life to make him sweat. "Just like my men."

 _Fuck._ "Somehow I doubt you slow down enough for anything sweet, pal."

Steve actually winks at him. "Guess we'll see," he says, and then turns to the woman at the register to order. 

Bucky grabs his own coffee from the counter and goes to find them a table—and to take a couple of deep breaths to find his balance again, which is hard to do when he can't drag his eyes away from Steve and the way he's filling out his dark jeans. He wants to grab a handful, pull him in, feel Steve arch against him. The thought of it makes his face heat and his gut go tight, the visceral feeling of _want_ coiling up inside him, shocking him in its intensity. It's been so long since he's thought about sex this way—in specific hypotheticals and not vague memories or fantasies for the few minutes it takes to get himself off. 

Is it Steve specifically or just his first real prolonged exposure to someone attractive who isn't his family or friend or doctor? He doesn't know, but when Steve turns around and walks toward him and curls his pretty red mouth up in a smirk at catching Bucky blatantly staring, he decides it doesn't matter. He wants someone's skin under his hand, their taste in his mouth. He wants—he wants touch. He wants to _feel_. 

He wants Steve.

"I got cookies," Steve says when he slides into the seat across from Bucky. He places a plate with a couple lumpy looking chocolate chip cookies in the middle of the table. "They're vegan, though, so you know. Lower your expectations accordingly."

"You're _vegan_?" Bucky asks incredulously.

Steve shakes his head. "Allergic to eggs. This whole hipster vegan explosion has been a real gamechanger, though. Used to be the only time I got cookies was when my mom made them." Steve's face collapses and then smooths out again in such rapid succession that Bucky wonders if he imagined it. 

"That sucks," Bucky says, grabbing a cookie, "for someone with such a sweet tooth." It's good; sweet and just a little more crumbly than he'd expect from a cookie but otherwise unremarkable in its veganess. Who knew.

"Yeah, I got a real craving." Steve nods toward Bucky's coffee. "How do _you_ take your coffee, Buck? Out of curiosity." He grins when Bucky tips his cup to show plain black coffee. "Oh, small and bitter. How convenient for me."

Bucky laughs out loud, watching Steve's smile stretch wider. He looks pointedly at Steve's arms stretching the seams of his t-shirt. "You're not what I'd call small, pal."

"Thanks, it's the napoleon complex," Steve says, beaming like he won a prize when Bucky laughs again. "Used to be a real scrawny little asshole when I was a kid, though. Always sick as a dog, with asthma and coke bottle glasses, and a back brace until I was like, fifteen. I would literally get down on my knees every night and _pray_ for the growth spurt everyone always told me was coming."

"Guess it you got it eventually," Bucky says, unable to keep his eyes from roaming over Steve's chest and shoulders. 

Steve sighs. "Yeah, god bless the miracles of modern medicine. I got back surgery when I was fifteen and gained a couple inches immediately, just from straightening out my fucking crazy-straw spine. Then puberty kicked in a year or so later." He laughs a little bitterly. "I was what folks call a late bloomer."

Steve mentions his surgery in such an offhand way, Bucky knows better than to comment on it; he is all too familiar with the forms defense mechanisms and Do Not Enter signs can take, and he doesn't want to push for anything Steve doesn't want to give, but he feels like a dragon hoarding each tiny bit of personal information Steve lets slip. For all his cocky posturing, Bucky's noticed how often Steve deflects when the conversation turns personal. 

So he defaults to clumsy flirtation. "Well, you made up a lot of ground, I see."

Steve grins and flexes like an asshole. "Yeah, started with PT after my surgery. They had me doing a lot of weight training to strengthen my back muscles and core, and I got kind of addicted." He smiles self-deprecatingly. "I hadn't been able to do much of anything physical before; being able to push myself and see those kind of results, even when it hurt, was probably close to what I imagine heroin is like."

"God, I wish my PT experience was anything like heroin. It mostly just feels like getting worked over by a sadist."

Steve makes a disappointed face. "Oh, so you're _not_ into that? Damn."

"I'm a one sadist at a time kind of guy," Bucky manages, though he feels his chest going tight again with anxiety. He's having fun, he is, but it's hard to keep up. Steve is so funny, sharp-tongued and clever in a way that Bucky finds obscenely attractive, but he's not used to having to be _on_ like this for any length of time. It feel exhilarating and dangerous and, if he's honest, really fucking exhausting. 

"Noted," Steve says. 

"Is that when you started drawing Cap, then?" Bucky asks, steering the conversation into easier territory. "After the surgery?"

"No," Steve says. "I've been drawing him since I was eight or so. Started when I was in the hospital for something—maybe pneumonia? I can't remember. I was feeling sorry for myself and wishing there was some magic pill that would make me big and strong."

"Where did the whole America thing come in?" That's one element Bucky hasn't been able to reconcile. He'd been wary when he'd picked up the first comic; the name and the aggressive red, white and blue styling screamed nationalistic nightmare, but the comics hadn't read that way—the opposite, in fact. 

Steve makes a face. "I was really obsessed with joining the army as a kid—my dad was a vet and died when I was a baby, so I knew just enough to idolize him and idealize the whole concept of being a soldier. On the other hand," he says with a fond smile, "my mom's a raging socialist, so any time I mentioned it I got a forty five minute lecture on the evils of the American military industrial complex blah blah, which as a ten year old was a real killjoy, you know?"

"Yeah, I can see how it would be," Bucky says, picturing a sullen ten year old Steve getting read the riot act by another firecracker blonde. 

"But then as I got older and became more aware of what was happening in the world and applied some critical thinking skills to all the propaganda disguised as history lessons, my perspective changed a lot. And so did Cap's."

"Bet your mom was real proud," Bucky says.

Steve nods, taking a sip of coffee. "Yeah," he says, a little quieter than before. "Anyway, what do you think of the Soldier's stuff?" 

Steve pulls a folder from his messenger bag with some printouts of the stuff he'd sent to Bucky, and even on shitty printer paper, they're impressive. Bucky'd spent the week reading through the materials Steve sent, making notes as he went on inaccuracies, or small suggestions but he doesn't have much feedback—even to Bucky's untrained eyes, Steve's work is impressive, his drawings lifelike and expressive, the mood jumping off the page before your eyes even get to the words.

"You're stupid talented, you know that right?" he says, and Steve's smile is so bright and genuine Bucky feels something like an impact crater in his chest. "Your art is insane, I don't know how you find the time to draw and color and letter all of it—okay yes, I looked up some comics shit, shut up." Bucky feels his face heat when Steve raises a brow.

"I'm gonna turn you into a comic book nerd yet, I can feel it," Steve says with a grin. "Any concerns with anything, though? Besides the gun shit."

"Just a few details I made notes on, I'll email them to you. Nothing major." Bucky clears his throat. "It's really amazing—how much of the vet stuff you got right in it, though. A lot of the stuff the Soldier goes through is really relatable. Cap, too."

"Hopefully not too relatable," Steve says. "I know our government is basically Hydra right now, but I'm hoping they didn't actually brainwash you and steal your arm."

Bucky doesn't want to get into the reasons why a story about a brainwashed soldier trained to kill with ruthless efficiency for the "greater good" resonates, but he knows it's not an accident that it does. Steve's writing is deft and deliberate, and the few glimpses into the Soldier's process of throwing off his conditioning and turning on his handlers, his steps to becoming a person again—the sweet moments of self-care juxtaposed against the violence and dark moments of recrimination and guilt—were moving in a way that was hard for Bucky to look at directly.

"Not exactly," Bucky says. "You know what I mean though." 

"Yeah," Steve says. "My best friend Sam was a PJ, and it was really difficult for him when he came back. He's an EMT now and doing a lot better, but it was rough for awhile. Sometimes still is."

Bucky had figured Steve must have had someone in his life who was a vet, to give him this kind of insight. It never stops being weird to think about how Steve pulled his face out of a crowd and put it on a character with such a relatable story, though. Life is wild. "You did a great job with it, Steve. I'm not going to say it's comfortable to see my face on the page, but I think what you're writing is going to mean something to a lot of people."

"Thanks," Steve says a little shyly. "It's been my baby for a long time, I'm just glad I finally put it out there after like, fifteen years of poking at it."

"What made you do it?"

"Spite, mostly," Steve says offhandedly, and Bucky chokes on his sip of coffee. He doesn't know what he was expecting Steve's answer to be, but somehow spite makes more sense than anything else. "I'd used it as one of my final projects at CUNY before I dropped out, and my advisor was kind of a dick about it. So I had no choice, obviously."

"Obviously," Bucky says. "Is that why you dropped out, because he was a dick?"

Steve shakes his head. "Just couldn't afford it any more." He pops the last of his cookie in his mouth and grins. "But him being a dick didn't hurt."

"His loss," Bucky says, toasting Steve with his empty mug. He glances at his watch and grimaces. "Shit, it's almost eleven. I better get going." He'd budgeted two hours with Steve tonight, knowing any later would mean he would be an absolute wreck at work tomorrow. He experiences the revelation that he went almost the whole evening without checking the time as both a confetti canon and blaring siren, and undergoes the unique feeling of trying to physically flinch away from his own goddamn brain.

Luckily, Steve isn't paying any attention to him, gathering up his papers and slipping them into his bag. "Yeah, they're going to be closing in a minute anyway," he says, and Bucky takes a couple covert breaths to calm himself down. He's so close to getting through this without broadcasting his true level of crazy, and if he can just power through whatever the goodbye process will entail, he can be home in approximately thirteen minutes. 

The rain has stopped when they step outside, and the street is damp and quiet. They walk in silence for a few minutes, hands shoved deep in their pockets against the chill.

"Thanks for meeting me," Steve says, and Bucky experiences something close to vertigo as he's ripped from his internal anxiety spiral. "I know this is really late for you."

"It was fun," Bucky says in a voice he hopes is casual. "At least tomorrow is Friday."

Steve groans. "Fridays just means more obnoxious drunks to deal with."

"You working all weekend?" Bucky asks. 

Steve nods. "Yep, double shift on Sa—" 

They both stop mid-stride when they hear it: a yelp from somewhere up the street. They frown at each other, listening intently, and when they hear shuffling sounds and a frantic, "Give it back!" that cuts off abruptly, Steve is off like a shot. 

"Shit—Steve!" Bucky shouts, taking off after him. He skids to a halt when he rounds the corner and sees Steve launching himself at a big guy who has a kid cornered against a shadowy doorway. Steve grabs the dude by the shoulders and slams him into the opposite wall, and Bucky winces, but he can't blame Steve for the force. The kid can't be more than fourteen or fifteen, and is shaking against the wall, holding his face. 

"Are you hurt?" he asks quietly, positioning himself between the kid and the scuffling bodies behind him, but trying not to loom. 

"I'm fine," the kid says, wiping his eyes with a quick swipe of his hand and straightening up. Bucky feels a cold rage slip through him at the sight of the bruise just starting to form on his cheek; the other guy is at least five or six years older with a good sixty more pounds on him.

"He's about to be if he doesn't give me my fucking money!" the other guy shouts, and Steve lands an answering punch to his ribs. 

"Shut the fuck up," Steve hisses, and then the guy is throwing him off and reversing their positions, slamming Steve's head into the wall with a loud crack and glancing a blow off his jaw. 

Steve's eyes roll back for just a second, but he's grinning with bloody teeth. "Can't even throw a punch like a man, no wonder you—" The guy suckerpunches him and Steve goes down wheezing, and Bucky is just so very done with this part of the evening. 

He grabs the guy by the back of his neck in a vice grip, and slams him face first into the wall, pinning him with the weight of his body. "You take his money?" he asks the kid.

The kid sneers. "He stole it from my brother first!"

"No, I fucking didn't—" the guy starts, and Bucky slides his hand around his throat, positioning his thumb over his carotid and tightening his grip just enough to make him see stars. The mechanics of violence come easy to him; he knows without having to think about it exactly how much pressure to apply, how long he can hold it before the guy will pass out. It's not perfect one-handed, of course, but he knows how to make it work. Tactical flexibility is what he used to call it, and he's going to stop thinking about that right now before he throws up all over this guy's expensive sneakers.

"You know what?" he says, voice calm and steady. "I don't actually fucking care. Go home, kid."

Once the kid is out of sight, Bucky counts to one hundred and then lets the squirming guy go. "Get the fuck out of here," he says, giving him a shove. 

"Fuck you guys!" the guy yells as he scurries off, and Bucky sighs tiredly. He knows they didn't do anything but delay the inevitable, but hopefully he gave the kid time to get some help—if he's smart, which is slim odds. Bucky remembers very clearly what it's like to be a teenager running wild without much adult supervision. 

He crouches down next to Steve, who is still wheezing faintly. "Are you okay?" Steve nods. Bucky notices the inhaler in his fist, and is abruptly aware of the adrenaline still vibrating through him. "Jesus, Steve. What the fuck were you thinking, running at that guy like that? He could have had a knife or worse."

"He was beating up a kid," Steve rasps, his jaw set mulishly. "What was I supposed to do—"

"You could have waited for me for starters, you reckless fucking idiot," Bucky growls, hauling Steve to his feet. "Can you walk?"

"I'm _fine_ ," Steve snaps, but he sways a bit when Bucky steps back. 

"Yeah, you look fucking fantastic," Bucky grumbles, and wrap his arm around his shoulder, turning them back toward Steve's apartment. Steve's breathing is still labored when they reach his building, and he fumbles with his keys, his hands shaking from adrenaline or albuterol, or maybe pain. 

"Give me those," Bucky says, snatching them from his hand. It takes him two tries to open the door himself, and Steve stews silently all the way up to his door, when Bucky again struggles to get the key in the lock with his one trembling hand. 

He marches Steve into the bathroom and sits him on the toilet, flipping on the light belatedly so he can get a good look at the damage, ignoring Steve's low hiss at the brightness. He crouches down in front of Steve, pressing gentle fingers to his jaw that is just starting to bruise and the shallow cut on his cheekbone, sweeping them through Steve's sweaty hair to prod at the lump forming at the back of his head. 

"How hard did you hit your head?" he asks, his voice more brisk than he intends. He feels calm and focused on the task in front of him. But just beyond it, he can sense the need to fall apart; the way his bones are rattling around in his too-small skin.

"Dunno," Steve says. His eyes are closed and his breathing is still a little shallow and raspy. 

"You feel sick to your stomach? Dizzy?" Steve shakes his head and winces. "Hey, look at me for a second, pal."

Steve's eyes flutter open, impossibly blue in the bright bathroom light. His pupils seem to react normally, but he's squinting behind his smudged glasses. Bucky takes them off for him, folding them up and placing them neatly on the bathroom counter. "The light hurt your eyes?"

"A little," Steve mumbles. 

"You might have a mild concussion, you should really go get looked at."

"What're you, a doctor?" Steve says. 

"No, dumbass. That's why I'm telling you to get looked at." All rangers get field medic training, and he's patched up enough guys to know the basics of post-head trauma care, but an MRI is never a bad idea. 

"Can't afford it. I'm fine. Just let me clean up and—" He tries to get to his feet, and Bucky pushes him back down, the toilet seat clattering against the porcelain when Steve plops down forcefully. 

"Sit down," Bucky snaps. "You fall over and hit your head again, I'm going to carry your ass to the ER whether you like it or not." Steve glares up at him, but doesn't make a move to get up. Good. "You got ice in the freezer?" Steve nods again, and winces. Again. Idiot. Bucky sighs; it's going to be a long night. "Okay, I'll be right back. Don't move." 

Once in the kitchen, he realizes he needs something to wrap the ice in. In true guy-in-his-mid-twenties form, there is only the ghost of paper towels past on the counter; the cardboard tube with its last tiny scrap of towel hanging off like a flag of surrender on the counter, and no dishtowel to be found. He could use his own shirt, but he's not real keen on the idea of showing off his impressive array of scar tissue on a first—was this a date? No, that's too depressing. It was definitely not a date. 

So he heads down the hall in search of a linen closet, or maybe Steve's bedroom where he can snag a towel or some other scrap of fabric. The first door is a supply closet of some sort, filled with a haphazardly stacked pile of boxes. Nope. He pauses in the doorway of the second, taking in a very feminine bedroom. There are framed photos on the dresser of what can only be child-Steve and a willowy blonde woman who must be his mom. On the wall across from the bed is a painting of the two of them, Steve a small, thin carbon copy of his mom. They have the same wide smiles, the same laughing blue eyes. They look happy in a way Bucky's never seen Steve look, and it makes something sharp twist in his gut as a cold realization comes over him. The room doesn't look like it's been touched in awhile, a fine layer of dust laying over the polished wood dresser. Everything, Bucky imagines, exactly where it was left the last time Steve's mom was here. _Shit_.

Bucky closes the door very quietly, and heads across the hall to what has to be Steve's room. Bucky very deliberately does not look at anything as he slips in to grab the t-shirt flung on the floor by the bed, and walks back to the kitchen for ice. 

"How's the head?" he asks when he walks back into the bathroom. 

Steve startles from his slumped position on the toilet seat. "It's fine, I told you."

"Yeah, yeah," Bucky says, holding out the t-shirt wrapped wad of ice. "Here, hold this to your head. I'm gonna clean out this cut on your cheek. You have any neosporin?"

"There's a kit, second drawer," Steve says, hissing when he presses the ice to the knot on the back of his thick skull. "Grab me a couple Advil from the medicine cabinet, would you?"

"Can't have that with a head injury," Bucky mutters on reflex. "You got Tylenol?" He opens the mirrored cabinet and goggles at the sheer number of orange pill bottles. It puts his own impressive array of meds to shame. "Jesus christ, you got a whole pharmacy in here."

"Only about half are mine," Steve mumbles. "Keep meaning to drop them off at the hospital. Might be some Tylenol in there, I don't know." 

Bucky sees some of the bottles are labeled for Rogers, Sarah, and he begins to draw a very sad conclusion that makes his guts twist painfully. Bucky pushes the thought away; Steve hasn't mentioned it, and he's not going to ask when he sounds so exhausted. It's not his business anyway. He grabs the bottle of Tylenol and opens the drawer Steve pointed to, pulling out a fully stocked first-aid kit.

"Guess this isn't a first for you, huh?" he says, turning back to Steve and handing him a couple pills and a glass of water. "If you've got a whole kit at the ready."

"My mom was a nurse," Steve says with a shrug. "And also...maybe." 

Bucky wonders how recently she passed, if Steve still has all her stuff right where it was left, but he keeps his mouth shut as he wets a square of gauze and gently swipes over the graze on Steve's cheekbone. "Hold still, baby," Bucky says when he flinches, and he means it as an insult, not an endearment, but Steve's mouth still quirks up. 

"Okay, sweetheart."

"Just shut up," Bucky huffs a laugh, spreading some antibacterial ointment over the graze and wiping his fingers on some gauze. "You're fucking crazy, you know that? About gave me a heart attack running off like that."

"Just wanted to help," he mumbles, and he sounds so tired and sad, Bucky has to resist the urge to wrap his arm around him. 

"I know, buddy. You did. You did a good thing, even if it was stupid."

"No," Steve says with an abortive shake of his head. "I just wanted to punch the guy. You're the one who actually helped. You always help people."

Bucky snorts. "No I don't." He can barely help himself most days. 

"Yes you do. You helped that woman on the train. I saw you. You helped me."

"What?" Though Bucky knows perfectly well—there's only one thing he could mean. 

"That day on the train, those assholes hassling that lady. I saw it happening and I was trying to find the energy to get up, and then there you were. Swooping in like a fucking missile, shoving them back and standing between them and the woman. I don't know what you said to them to make them look like they were about to piss their pants, but they went running off and then you—you were so kind to her. She was shaking and crying and you looked so panicked, but you still helped. And I couldn't even get out of my seat in time do anything." Steve's eyes are wide and intense, and horrifically, going a little wet at the edges.

Bucky remembers that day—the out of body experience of getting up though everything in him rebelled against it, panic making the edges of his vision sharp and vivid, but hearing voices as though he were underwater. He doesn't know what he said to them either, but he knows it was awful. He felt the vitriol flow up from somewhere black in his guts, pour out of him like hot bile. He swallowed it down when he turned back to the lady, helped her right her cart and find her seat, held her shaking hand, and wished he were anywhere but there. Wondering if he was going to be able to make it to his stop before he threw up. It didn't feel much like helping. 

Something hard and tight loosens in him—the lingering fear that Steve had chosen him for the Soldier's face because he somehow saw the ruthless, merciless killer in him. 

"Hey, no. Listen, hon—Steve," he says, reaching out and putting his hand on Steve's shoulder, squeezing tight. "Listen, it's not on you to help everyone, alright? You do what you can with what you've got—"

"Yeah, but you—" Steve begins, and Bucky tightens his grip and dips his head to look him directly in the eye.

"You didn't help her because you didn't have to," he says quietly, firmly. "If I hadn't been there, you would have gotten up. But you didn't have to, because someone else stepped in. Letting someone else help when you can't do it yourself isn't a failure, okay?" He nearly didn’t survive the long road to learning that lesson, and if he can save Steve even a portion of the trip, it will be worth it. 

Steve stares at him for a tense, quiet moment, and then suddenly pitches forward, pressing his mouth to Bucky's. Steve's mouth is warm and wet, soft and frantic, and for a moment Bucky is frozen in place, proximity alarms blaring in his brain and pants feelings tingling and heart somersaulting in his goddamn chest. His brain finally kicks in—Steve is _kissing_ him—and he wraps his arm around Steve's shoulder and moves his lips against Steve's. It's a small, gentle touch, but it lights Bucky up like the fucking fourth of July. 

"Can I just," Steve murmurs against his mouth, and then he's pressing closer, sliding off the toilet seat and making Bucky stumble back from his crouch. Bucky falls back against the bathroom wall, his arm and lap full of the warm, solid weight of Steve. Steve drops the ice pack with a wet splat, and then his hands are on Bucky, one cool and slightly damp on his neck, the other cupping his face. He looms over Bucky, fiercely, savagely beautiful in the backlighting, his eyes electric and hungry, lips parted to reveal the red wet of his mouth. 

Bucky doesn't know if he wants to eat, or be eaten. 

"Christ, you're pretty," Steve says a little breathlessly, thumbing at Bucky's bottom lip. "Wanted to crawl into your lap the first time I saw you." He licks into Bucky's panting mouth, deeper when Bucky makes a small noise in his throat at the taste of him, at the electricity sparking up his spine when their tongues meet. 

It's good, it's _so good_. Steve's hungry mouth, hot and slick, his hands gripping Bucky so tight, his weight pinning Bucky to the floor. There have been a lot of moments in the past three years Bucky has wished for two hands, but he thinks never so much as this moment right here; he can't get enough of the way the muscles of Steve's back bunch and flex as he moves against him, his broad chest, his thick arms. His soft, damp hair at the nape of his neck. He wants to feel all of it, in stereo. 

He slips his hand under the back of Steve's shirt, finding smooth, hot skin, and the little noise Steve lets out at that simple touch makes Bucky want to lay him out, eat him up. Lick over every inch of that pale, perfect skin. Fuck. He glides his fingers over the groove of Steve's spine, pausing when he encounters the soft ridge of what can only be scar tissue. He runs his thumb along the flat, smooth seam, wondering with the small portion of his brain not consumed with _wet hot good fuck_ how far up it goes. 

Steve tenses and jerks back, hisses when the movement jostles his head. Bucky slips his hand away, pulling Steve's shirt back down and pressing a kiss to Steve's throat. "Sorry," he says guiltily. He knows too well how that may have crossed a line. "You okay?" 

"Yeah," Steve says tightly. His eyes are closed and he's panting quietly, one hand curled in Bucky's hair and the other pressed against his chest. He drops his forehead to Bucky's shoulder after a moment, and tucks his face into Bucky's neck. "Just tired," he mumbles with a sigh. "Head hurts." 

"I bet," Bucky says quietly, placing his hand on the back of Steve's neck and kneading gently. Steve seems to go boneless against him, his breath stuttering against Bucky's neck for a moment before he goes loose and heavy. "You should go to bed, pal. How long's it been since you slept?"

"'m fine," Steve mutters, by reflex probably. He goes still and tense for a moment, but doesn't move away from Bucky's touch. "You should stay," he says finally, as though the words had to be dragged from his mouth.

Indecision is an anchor in Bucky's gut. He doesn't know what time it is, doesn't want to shift Steve to look at his watch, but he knows it's late enough that by the time he gets home, whatever sleep he gets won't make a difference. Added to that, Steve might have a concussion, and if he goes home chances are he'll spend the whole night worrying about him anyway. So what does it matter. He can go home and lie awake and anxious in his own bed, or he can stay awake and anxious in this strange, lonely apartment and give Steve the comfort he so plainly had to fight himself to ask for. 

"Alright," Bucky says softly.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is where the Mentions of Cancer tag comes in. if you would like to skip any specific talk of it, use the following guides:
> 
> skip from "without flinching" to "Bucky walks back into the room" in the first section;  
> skip from "how's Sarah" to "You doing okay" in the fourth section
> 
> ETA 7/1/2019: much of the details regarding Sarah's end of life care / state were taken from my personal experience with a family member. Whether they are correct in terms of best practices I can’t say—I suspect there is no standard experience when it comes to losing a loved one in this way. I’d ask you to take this with a grain of salt, and remember Steve is a bit of an unreliable narrator. <3

Steve wakes to insistent buzzing somewhere around his left inner thigh, and while he's not going to say that's an entirely foreign sensation, the thigh wouldn't be his first choice. It takes him a moment to find the will to open his eyes to investigate why there is a vibrator on his legs, at which point several things become clear: he is fully clothed in his bed, the buzzing is coming from the phone in Bucky's pants pocket, and it's vibrating against his leg because Steve has the majority of his body wrapped around him like the world's drooliest straitjacket. If Bucky's wide, tired eyes and his gentle attempts to extricate himself from Steve's sleeping death grip are any indication, the position isn't entirely consensual.

Steve jerks back...and tumbles right off the edge of the bed onto the goddamn floor. At which point, he realizes that a) his head feels like someone took a sledgehammer to it, b) his dick can apparently still get hard even after said sledgehammer to the head, what a champ, and c) it's still fucking dark out.

"Are you okay?" Bucky asks, looking over the edge of the bed. If Steve's head didn't feel like his brain was wearing a helmet three sizes too small that was made out of knives, it would actually be funny.

"Whatimes'it?" Steve manages, holding his head in both hands to keep it steady.

"Just after three," Bucky whispers, looking guilty. "Sorry, I gotta go to work. How's your head?"

Steve attempts to roll onto his knees and then stand up without jostling his head, which proves impossible. So he just powers through, climbing back onto the bed with a drawn out, " _fuuuuck._ "

"That good, huh?" Bucky gets up and shuffles his way around the bed to sit beside Steve, peering down at him.

Steve stops himself from shaking his head just in time. "Just feels like someone cracked my head against a brick wall. I'll be fine."

"Okay," Bucky says, blowing out a breath. Steve's eyes have adjusted enough to the dark that when he squints, he can make out how strung out Bucky looks in the scant light coming through the cracked blinds. His face looks slightly sweaty, which may be due to wearing Steve like a blanket all night, but his eyes are wide and ringed with shadows and can't seem to land anywhere for more than a second.

"Are _you_ okay?" Steve asks, reaching out to wrap a hand around Bucky's wrist, the closest bit of skin he can reach without moving his head. He rubs his thumb over Bucky's quick, steady pulse and wishes he wasn't the kind of person who ended a first date with a street fight. He'd like to wake up in bed with Bucky under different, more naked circumstances. He'd like to kiss him somewhere other than a bathroom floor. Somewhere other than his pretty mouth, too. "You get any sleep?"

"Some," Bucky says with a shrug, his eyes sliding away to focus on Steve's hand on his arm. Which is a no. It's been a long time since Steve actually _slept_ with someone; he'd forgotten that he turns into a complete cuddle-slut as soon as he's out.

"Do you mind if I use your shower?" Bucky asks.

"No, go ahead," Steve says. He lets go of Bucky's wrist, and Bucky gets up so suddenly that Steve wonders if he was only sitting still because of Steve's hold on him. "Use whatever you need. There are shirts in the second drawer there," he gestures toward his dresser, "and uh...well, there's no way to say this that isn't weird, but there's underwear in the top drawer if you want. I don't mind." He's pretty sure there's clean underwear in there, anyway. His laundry basket is a touch full at the moment, but he's hoping he's got a few more days before he has to sweet talk Hue at the bodega into giving him his change in quarters.

"Thanks," Bucky says, and moves out of his line of vision. Steve hears the drawers open and close, and Bucky makes a small noise. "You've got quite the variety of underwear here, Steve."

Hm, maybe the laundry situation is more dire than he thought if his slutty stuff isn't buried under a pile of boxer briefs. "Please, _please_ wear one of the jocks. Give me something good to think about at work all day."

"You think you'll be up to going to work?" Bucky asks, the killjoy.

"No real choice in the matter." He flaps a hand when he hears Bucky draw breath to argue. "It's just a headache, it'll wear off soon. And you're no fun."

"Sorry for being more worried about your head than your dick, pal," Bucky says.

"They don't have to be mutually exclusive concepts, Buck," Steve says, grinning up at the ceiling because if he moves his head to look at him he might cry. Not that he would be able to see much of him at this distance without his glasses on anyway. "You know they say orgasms can help with headaches? All the endorphins and shit. We could test out that theory."

"As fun as that sounds," Bucky says wryly, "I have to catch a train in... thirty seven minutes."

"I appreciate the vote of confidence, but you're severely overestimating my stamina here," Steve says, unable and unwilling to help himself. "I'm willing to take a raincheck, though."

"Wow, what a giver," Bucky deadpans, but his voice sounds a little tighter. Maybe Steve's coming on too strong? He's gotta dial it back. He really can't believe he was desperate enough to practically beg Bucky to stay last night, but he couldn't handle the thought of being alone. He hasn't brought anyone home with him since he moved back in to his mom's place, and he hadn't realized how comforting it would be to listen to the small sounds of Bucky moving around the apartment last night, his quiet muttering and shuffling feet. It made the prospect of going back to the eerie silence too depressing when he was already feeling so raw.

"Where are your towels, by the way?" Bucky asks, and Steve's grateful for the distraction.

Steve has to think for a minute. "Uh. Laundry basket in the living room, I think. They're clean, I just haven't gotten around to putting them away yet." The fact that they've been sitting there for three weeks is not something he's willing to share. After last night's shitshow, he's got to work on proving to Bucky's he is actually a rational, responsible adult. He can't blame Bucky for backing off this morning—he probably wouldn't be interested in his own brand of sad disaster either.

Bucky disappears down the hall, and a few moments later Steve hears the shower turn on. If he were a better person, he'd try not to think about what Bucky looks like, naked and wet under the spray. But he's not a better person, he's a horny little asshole with a pounding head, and it's his god-given right to perv as much as he wants to inside his own horny asshole brain. He'd done his best to map every available inch of Bucky's torso last night on the bathroom floor, and he got the general impression of solidity—nothing cut or purposefully maintained like his own body, but a solid, warm wall of strength under his hands. Shoulders for fucking days, the kind Steve would love to sink his teeth into while getting dicked into the absolute ether. God.

Steve wants Bucky in a way he hasn't had the energy to want anyone for a long time. Steve's always liked sex, sought it out often and without shame because it's fun and it feels good and as long as he's being safe and smart about it, why the fuck shouldn't he enjoy it whenever the urge strikes? But in the last year or so it's become something desperate and sad; a string of blurry hookups, anonymous orgasms sought out when he's desperate for a distraction, for touch, for anything to pull him out of his head—out of his _life_ —for as long as it takes to come. But this…whatever this is with Bucky, it feels different. Steve _likes_ him, beyond even the filthy things he imagines when he's half-asleep and jerking off in the shower. Bucky is so open, so solid and sweet it makes Steve want to crawl right inside him. He wants Bucky's hands on him, sure, but it's more than that; something about Bucky makes Steve feel safe in a way he can't explain.

Actually...no. Not _hands_. It's not like Steve forgot that Bucky only has one arm, it's just so easy to let his mind skip over it. It's not entirely comfortable for him to consider—it feels rude, somehow, to focus on it. Which, when Steve steps back to unpack that, is clearly a product of his own unease. Bucky doesn't do anything to hide the fact he's missing an arm; he talks about it openly, even jokes about it. It's a fact of Bucky's existence, one he has obviously had to work very hard to accept. The least Steve can do is acknowledge it without flinching.

Steve's no stranger to scars or amputations; the cancer ward had been full of them, and he'd taken care of his mom after her mastectomy. He knows Bucky's scars will not be like the ones he's seen—it will not be contained to a neat, surgical seam; it will look as violent as the circumstances that necessitated it. The thought of the pain Bucky must have endured twists his stomach, but he forces himself to visualize it. The first time he thinks about it in any detail cannot be the first time he actually sees it; he doesn't want anything in his reaction to make Bucky uncomfortable.

Bucky walks back into the room, and Steve's train of thought plummets off its tracks. Holy shit. His hair is wet and slicked back, and he's wearing one of Steve's shirts that is too small on Steve to begin with—he knows what he's doing, thanks—but is absolutely obscene on Bucky's much thicker frame, which the unzipped hoodie he's put over it does very little to hide. It makes Steve's brain white out for a minute, and when Bucky sits beside him on the bed and he can smell the warm scent of his own shampoo and soap on him, he can't help the noise that escapes.

Bucky must take it for a pained noise—not entirely wrong—because he frowns and says, "hey, sit up for a second, I brought you some Tylenol." When Steve scoots slowly upright, Bucky hands over a couple of pills and then the glass of water from the nightstand.

"I gotta go," Bucky says, leaning over Steve. "You gonna be okay?"

The sweet concern on Bucky's face makes him feel a little breathless. It makes something swell up behind his breastbone and throb. "Yeah," he says. "Gonna go back to sleep for a couple hours."

"Good," Bucky says, and leans down to press a kiss to Steve's mouth, and _oh thank god_. This is something he knows how to handle. He reaches up a hand and threads it through the damp, cool weight of Bucky's hair to hold him in place, opening his mouth under Bucky's and sighing when Bucky's tongue slips inside. Bucky pulls back with a sharp bite to Steve's bottom lip, and glances at his watch, grimacing. "I really have to go. Take it easy today, okay?"

Steve does not tell him just how easy he'd take it right now, because he's a grown up and can tell Bucky is stressed about missing his train. "Yes, sir," he says with a smirk. "Maybe we can hang out sometime this weekend?"

Bucky smiles, bright and a little shy. "Sure, just text me."

He disappears down the hall, and the front door isn't even closed before Steve is popping the button on his jeans and working his hand into his boxers. He's not all the way hard yet, but he feels tender all over, his blood throbbing under skin that feels too tight, stretched thin over his bones. He's hot, shaking with it, feeling the phantom press of Bucky's soft mouth and the graze of his stubble. It makes a sharp arrow of want pierce through him, lights him up, makes his breath catch and his dick swell up in his fist. He slides his other hand under his shirt, thumbing at a nipple, pumping himself slow and deliberate the way he imagines Bucky might. He thinks about Bucky eyes on him, steady and sweet, what it would feel like to have him slide in deep, rock into him—he'd do it so good, fill him up, touch him where he needs it, he'd—

Steve comes with a gasp, arching off the bed and spilling over his hand. "Fuck," he gasps, stroking himself gently through the last of it.

He wipes his wet hand on the sheets and kicks his jeans and underwear off, rolling over onto the clean side and sliding off into sleep.

And his head does feel better, actually. Thanks, science.

**:: :: ::**

He sleeps for a couple hours, and then throws on running clothes and heads out to meet Sam in the park. It's a beautiful day, the sky a clear, cloudless blue, the air crisp and clean in his lungs. He pulls out his phone on the way, and shoots off a quick text to Bucky. __  
**Thanks for staying last night, I know you probably didn't get any sleep. Hope work isn't too bad today.**  


Bucky doesn't respond until Steve's almost at the park ten minutes later, and Steve knows Bucky's at work and can't be fucking around on his phone all the time, but the lag still makes Steve's stomach twist irrationally.

_**It's okay. I probably wouldn't have gotten much sleep anyway, worrying about your thick skull.  
How is it, by the way?** _

Steve smiles through the butterflies that seem to be fluttering around the base of his throat. Ugh, what a sweetheart.

_**Better now.**_ Steve bites his lip, debating if he wants to go there, then shrugs. Fuck it. _**Tested out that theory, turns out orgasms really are great for pain management.**_ 😉

The three little dots pop up and disappear a couple times before Bucky sends, _**Sorry I couldn't stick around to help you out with that.**_

_**Me too,**_ Steve types. _**Maybe we could try it again this weekend? You still owe me the gun show, after all.**_

**_I never know if you're serious about that or if you're just being a little flirt. Do you mean my_ ** 🔫 _**or my** 🍆 _

__

Steve outright giggles. **_Yes.  
Also, I'm offended. LITTLE flirt? Honey, I'm the biggest flirt you've ever seen. _**

**_No lie.  
You off any time this weekend?_ **

_**Closing at Erskine's Saturday - get off at 7. That work?** _

_**I can come around 8? Want me to bring you dinner?** _

Steve very heroically does not respond with "just feed me your dick" and instead goes with, **_You don't have to wine and dine me, you know. I'm a sure thing._**

**_I was thinking more along the lines of beer and tacoing you._ **

**_That sounds pretty dirty, Buck._ **

**_I think we both have the wrong equipment for that, pal_** , Bucky responds, which makes Steve laugh out loud.

**_Okay - gotta get back to work. Talk to you later._ **

**_Looking forward to learning how to handle your gun, Buck._ ** 😊 

**:: :: ::**

"Don't give me Kermit face," Steve says when Sam gives his bruises one of the patented _I Left You Alone For Five Minutes_ faces Steve's been the regular recipient of for going on a decade now. "It's barely anything."

"Barely anything," Sam murmurs, putting a gentle hand on Steve's jaw and turning it so he can get a better look at the swelling. He sighs. "One day you're gonna run headfirst into the wrong fight, idiot."

"But not today," Steve says brightly, holding his ankle to stretch his quad. "Bet you we can beat our time today."

Sam eyes him skeptically. "This going to end with you wheezing on the ground again?"

"No, I feel good," Steve says. He feels great, actually—better than he has any right to when he's still nursing a headache and a bruised jaw, but he's not going to question it.

"Why are you so chipper," Sam says, narrowing his eyes, and then holds up his hand when Steve opens his mouth. "You know what—no. I already know. I don't need to know about you getting railed in a dirty bathroom or whatever it is this time."

Steve smirks. "All I did was have coffee with a cute boy, Sam," he says, carefully leaving out the part where he got his head smacked off some bricks. Irrelevant. "Sorry to disprove your prurient fantasies."

"Coffee?" Sam asks incredulously. " _Just_ coffee?"

"Basically," Steve calls over his shoulder, taking off onto the trail.

"You're such an asshole!" Sam yells, sprinting to catch up.

Forty five minutes later, Sam is panting with his hands braced on his knees, dripping sweat onto the grass. "The fuck's gotten into you today. You're barely winded."

Steve wipes his sweaty face with the hem of his shirt, and then takes it off altogether when he registers how good the cool air feels on his damp skin. "Told you," he says, "I had a good night."

**:: :: ::**

"Okay," Sam says later, when they're getting breakfast. Bless a paycheck. "So who's the guy?"

"Guy from the train," Steve says with a smirk.

"Soldier boy?" Sam nearly yelps. "You're shitting me. How'd you pull that?"

"First of all, his name is Bucky—"

Sam makes a face. "What?"

"Shut up, it's cute." He feels the tips of his ears go red, and pointedly ignores Sam's smirk. "He came into the bar last week, total coincidence. We got to talking and…" His mouth curls into a smile and he spends a moment contemplating his coffee, helpless to fight it. "I don't know, he's just a nice guy."

When he looks up, Sam is smiling back at him in a way that means he will be getting shit for days. "So. You like him."

Steve shrugs, feeling like his damp shirt is a little too tight around his shoulders. "It's whatever—casual. We're just having fun."

"Mmhm," Sam says, still grinning over the rim of his coffee mug. "Considering your standard method of fun is back alley blow jobs—"

"Hey, blow jobs _are_ fun. Just because you gave them up once you got all domestic with Claire—"

"How do you know?" Sam says with a leer. "You don't know our lives."

"Oh please." Steve rolls his eyes. "You two, with your schedules? You have sex twice a week if you're lucky and you're both asleep before Letterman."

"Okay, first of all: fuck you," Sam says, but he's laughing. "We have _great_ sex—"

"Of course you do, Claire is incredible, I'm sure she eats you alive. That wasn't my point."

"—and Letterman isn't even on anymore."

"Oh, that's your line in the sand? My late night talk show inaccuracies? Excuse me, you guys have excellent, athletic sex, and you're both asleep before Carson Daly."

"You boys done, or you want to keep arguing about how great Sam's sex life is while I hold these plates all day?" Teresa says pointedly, nodding toward the heavy tray in her hands.

"Sorry, T," Steve says, leaning back so she can slide the Lumberjack Special in front of him. He shoves an entire piece of bacon in his mouth and smirks at Sam across the table.

Sam points at him with his fork when Teresa is out of earshot. "Don't think I don't know what you did there," he says. "It's okay to admit you like this guy, Steve."

"I know," Steve says, knee-jerk defensive. "It's just…he's so fucking sweet. Too sweet for me, probably."

"No such thing," Sam says.

"No, I mean it," Steve insists. "He's like… down to the bone a good guy. Helps little old ladies getting hassled on the train. Helping me with my comic even though I was an insensitive creep. Patched me up last night too."

"Oh, so he was there to witness your usual dumbassery?"

"Yeah, and totally diffused it all too, when I would have just kept running my mouth and turned it into a shitshow," Steve says, forking up a bite. "And then he stays the night even though he has to get up at fuck o'clock for work. It's unfucking real."

Sam tilts his head. "And this is a bad thing?"

"No, it's just…" He trails off, trying to find the words. "You know, he's like you. Like, he's been through hell—he's a vet too—but he still manages to be this super together, kind guy. And I'm just this asshole barely keeping the lights on, working shitty jobs and picking fights and hooking up with random guys and...I don't know." He sighs, reaching under his glasses to rub his eyes. Why is this so fucking hard. "I'm not ashamed of any of that, I'm not, but I don't understand what the appeal is for him. You're stuck with me because we're practically family, but he's got nothing to keep him here once he figures out what a mess I am."

"First of all," Sam says once he's sure Steve is done, "you are the kind of mess that can be seen from space, dude. If he's witnessed the street fighting and whatever else, trust that he already knows what you're about."

"Thanks," Steve says wryly.

"No, it's a good thing. Your messy cards are on the table and he's picking them up anyway, right?"

Steve nods. He hasn't been totally honest with Bucky, but he hasn't exactly done much to hide what a disaster he is either.

"And if he's as similar to me as you say, then you know better than to think he's got it all together. He's going to have good days and bad days, same as you. It's still new enough that he may not feel ready to hit you with all the heavy stuff he's dealing with. Same as I'm sure you haven't given him the full picture." Sam gives him a knowing look and fuck, he hates it when Sam talks sense.

Steve puts his head on the table. "Ugh."

"Yeah, I know buddy. Welcome to the world of adult relationships," Sam says, reaching over him to grab the syrup.

"It's so much easier to just fuck someone and never see them again," Steve mumbles into the formica.

"So go do that then," Sam says amiably. "No one's stopping you."

He lifts his head to stare accusingly across the table and Sam cackles with a mouth full of pancake. "You're an asshole."

He smiles smugly around a bite of eggs. "Yeah, but I'm right. You like this dude."

Steve sighs and leans his head back against the booth. "Yeah." He thinks about Bucky's smile this morning, and feels his own face mirror it involuntarily. Ugh.

"It looks good on you. Haven't seen you smile like that in a long time, man."

Steve shrugs. "Turns out having a crush on someone is a good distraction."

Sam lets him get through most of his Lumberjack Special before he leans back and levels Steve with a serious look. "I hate to bring the mood down, lovebird, but I gotta check in." Steve braces himself, knowing what's coming. "How's Sarah?"

At least he asks without any of the hushed whispering he gets from the neighbors and Talia at the deli, and Hue at the bodega, and...fucking everyone who ever came in contact with Sarah Rogers. Like whispering makes it better. Like a normal fucking tone of voice might be the thing that breaks him, when his mom is _dying_ , and there's nothing he or anyone else can do about it but wait for the inevitable.

He shrugs, running his thumb along the groove where the formica meets the metal edge of the table. He could ignore the question, he has before, and Sam would let him. But Sam—Sam is different. Sam is family. "The same. Sleeping a lot, they gave her a feeding tube a couple days ago." His voice doesn't shake, and he's grateful for it holding steady when the rest of him feels like it's about to vibrate out of his skin.

"You still going to see her every day?" Sam asks carefully.

Steve shrugs. "Not every day. Whenever I have time.”

"Steve…" Sams says gently, shaking his head. "You have to give yourself a break, man. Come on."

Steve swallows hard. "She's my _mom_ , Sam. What else am I supposed to do?"

The cancer has metastisized fucking everywhere, her brain, her lungs, her bones. She hasn't recognized him in weeks, when she's been awake at all; her mind almost entirely lost to the haze of medication and sickness, only her body hanging on now. Every time he sees her, he convinces himself that this is it—it's over, this is the last time, and then she hangs on for another week. Another month. And he does it again. And again. 

The doctors, Sam, everyone keeps telling him he should be spending his time preparing himself for the impending inevitable. But what the fuck does that even mean? He's been _preparing himself_ for the last year, when it became clear chemo wasn't going to do anything for her. For the last six months, when she decided to stop treatment altogether. For the last six weeks, when he realized he could no longer take care of her himself. And still he doesn't feel very fucking prepared.

He doesn't know how to live in a world without his mom, but he's not sure how to keep living in this liminal space where she still exists but is no longer alive.

He hates himself for wishing for it to be over. He's tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop, tired of answering questions, tired of putting on a brave face. He's just _tired_. Feels like he's had all ten fingers and most of his toes plugging the dam for so long, it might be a relief to let it break. Let it all shatter, let the water pull him under—pull them both under. At least then it'd be done. At least then they could both rest. He doesn't want his mom to die, but he doesn't know how much longer he can watch her slowly dying.

"You doing okay?" Sam asks and then shakes his head. "Stupid question. What can I do to help, is what I mean."

Also a stupid question, but Steve doesn't say that. "Nothing to do but wait." There's nothing else. He knows that better than anyone.

"You want me to come with you next time? You just say the word, I'm there."

Steve shakes his head. "No, she wouldn't—she wouldn't want you to see her like that." Better Sam remembers her the way she was, young and vibrant, mind as sharp as her tongue. That's what she would have wanted. That's what Steve is trying his best to hold onto.

"You want to come over for dinner tomorrow? Or we can go out, have some beers? Whatever you want."

Steve shakes his head, dredging up a smile. "Can't. Got a date."

"Okay, man," Sam says carefully. "But just remember, you got people here for you. You can lean on us. We've got you."

"Yeah," Steve says. "I know."

**:: :: ::**

Steve gets home from work nearly half an hour later than he means to on Saturday, and immediately hops in the shower. He's not sure how far tonight will go with Bucky, but he's not taking any chances. He scrubs himself down, paying extra attention to the nooks and crannies. It's not presumptuous, it's just planning ahead. Maybe some wishful thinking. He hasn't gotten laid in—shit, nearly three weeks, and a man has needs. It's not his fault if he's hoping a few of them are gonna get met tonight.

He's just gathering up his laundry to take downstairs when the door buzzes - eight on the dot, of course. "Hey," he says a little breathlessly when he flings open the door.

"Hi," Bucky says with a bright, eye-crinkley smile that makes Steve feel dazed, like all the anticipation of seeing Bucky has coalesced into something that makes his chest feel like it's expanding and caving in on itself at the same time.

"I come bearing tacos," Bucky says, holding up a bag with the logo of one of Steve's favorite places up the block.

"Oh god, I love you," he blurts out. And then, very smoothly, "for bringing me food."

Bucky laughs. "Any time, pal. You gonna let me in, though?" And Steve realizes he is still blocking the door, holding an overflowing laundry basket.

"Oh yeah, of course, sorry," he says, stepping back. "Come in, I'm just gonna run down to the basement and throw this in the wash real quick."

"Okay," Bucky says, stepping in and putting down the bag of food on the table. "Real quick, though…" He grabs Steve by the shirtfront, reeling him in as far as the laundry basket on his hip will allow, and kisses him slow and deep until Steve feels his brain leak out of his ears like warm butter.

"Been thinking about that all day," Bucky says when he pulls back, smiling down at Steve with his red, perfect fuck-me mouth.

"Fuck," is all Steve can manage.

Bucky's grin turns a little filthy. "Maybe later. Go put your laundry in before the food gets cold."

And that's how Steve experiences the indignity of riding the elevator down to the basement with a half chub.

When he gets back, Bucky's set out the food and a couple of beers on the coffee table, and is thumbing through the folder of sketches Steve'd left out. "This for the next issue?" he asks, looking up when Steve walks in.

"Yeah," Steve says, plopping down beside him on the couch and snagging a taco. He takes an enormous bite because he's too hungry to care about manners. He hasn't eaten since the protein shake he had on the way to the store. "Soldier and Cap are gonna meet in this one."

Bucky takes a taco of his own, and unwraps it carefully. Steve wonders how many things he had to learn how to do with just one hand. Opening a taco is easy, but what about a bottle of water? A pill bottle? Buttoning a shirt? Things Steve takes for granted every day.

"They going to team up?" Bucky asks.

"Yeah, eventually," Steve says. "Cap isn't great at team work, and Soldier isn't great at like, interacting with other people, but once they realize they're on the same side, they know they're stronger fighting together."

Bucky takes a pull from the bottle of beer, and Steve can't help but stare at the way his throat works as he swallows, his adam's apple bobbing. He wants to bite it. He might not even be able to get through dinner without pouncing on Bucky.

"Will they ever eradicate Hydra completely, you think?"

Steve shrugs. "I guess if they ever do, that's the end of their story."

"Yeah, I guess retirement isn't exactly a sexy subject for a comic. Still, though… I know it's just me projecting, but he's so tired of fighting. Do you ever see him putting the shield down and having a normal life?"

Steve frowns. He's never really thought about it. "What would he do without it, though? What does that life look like for him?" Sounds boring, if he's honest.

Bucky shrugs, wiping his mouth. "I don't know, I just think about the symbolism of him carrying an actual shield—the point is that it keeps people away. Enemies, sure, but other people too. His friends who he left behind when he defected, that guy he was dating. They're always secondary to the cause, the next thing he's gotta fight. The shield is always between him and the things he wants—wants as a man, and not just a soldier, you know?" Bucky grins a little self-deprecatingly when Steve stares at him. "I know, I know. I'm probably reading too deep."

"No," Steve manages, not sure what he's feeling. He's honestly never thought about it like that. "You gotta think about what an intrinsic part of his identity the shield is, though. It's who he is now. Putting it down, walking away from it, that's walking away from a piece of himself. Who is he without it? How does he protect himself, or anyone else?"

Bucky shrugs. "I don't know. Maybe that's the point—figuring out who he is without it, letting other people get close to him. I know that's not really the point of your story and I'm just—" he gestures, popping a chip in his mouth, "projecting my own bullshit or whatever. I just feel bad for the guy. He's so alone, you know? Everyone's either died on him, or he's pushed them away, fighting this never ending war with no backup. No wonder he's tired." Bucky shakes his head. "At least he's teaming up with the Soldier. Hopefully they'll be friends?"

"Yeah," Steve says, reeling a little. "There's a grudging respect between them that'll grow into a sort of friendship. Mostly involves the Soldier giving Cap shit for being reckless, and Cap trying to make sure he's doing basic human stuff like eating meals that aren't protein bars and using shampoo."

"That's the hard stuff," Bucky says, nodding. "That's good. It'll be good for Cap to learn how to trust someone else enough to have his back."

Steve nods, downing the rest of his beer and feeling abruptly overwhelmed. "Here, eat this last taco. I'll be right back—laundry."

He takes the stairs down to the basement, needing to move, feeling transparent and raw and too big for his skin. It's not that Cap is completely autobiographical—Steve himself has never taken down a nazi terrorist cell (unless you count the time he and Sam ran into some skinheads on the way home from a bar, which was extremely satisfying but he's not sure qualifies)—but writing him has more or less been Steve's emotional outlet since he was eight years old. Cap started as an avatar—if Steve felt powerless or unwanted or trapped, Cap could take down twenty nazis and then go kiss his boyfriend at the Grand Canyon—-but somewhere along the way, he became a mirror. A funhouse mirror, distorted and blurry, but a version of himself all the same.

He wonders if Bucky knows—does he see Steve's reflection in the pages? Can he see Steve's exhaustion in Cap's defeat, his anger at the people who failed his mother in Cap's defection? Steve isn't sure he wants to know the answer. He's not sure what to do with the thought of being so seen.

He's breathing a little hard when he walks back into the apartment and closes the door behind him, but it's not entirely from the five floor walk.

"Hey," Bucky says, looking up from his phone. "So I brought—"

Steve doesn't give him the chance to finish. In two strides he's across the room and settling himself in Bucky's lap. "Hi," he says, and kisses Bucky deep and filthy. Bucky's hand comes up to press between Steve's shoulder blades, bringing him closer, and Steve bites Bucky's bottom lip, then sucks away the sting, dragging his mouth over Bucky's jaw and setting his teeth to his neck. He's rewarded with the sound of Bucky's punched out groan in his ear, with the feeling of Bucky's hips bucking into his, the press of his hard cock to his ass. He grinds back against it, and he feels euphoric, on fire, blood fizzing like champagne through his veins, every bit of him electric and alive with the feeling of Bucky groaning into his mouth, their hips moving together in a slow, dirty grind.

Bucky's hand slips down his spine, coming to rest on the curve of his ass and squeezing gently, as though testing its shape. "You have any idea," he says, voice rough and breathless, "how good your ass looks in these little shorts?"

They're just basketball shorts, and he's wearing them because literally every pair of jeans he owns is currently in the dryer in the basement, but yeah he did pick out the pair cups his ass the best. Of course he did. He's not an idiot.

Steve pulls back and grins. "Looks even better out of them, I promise."

"Yeah?" Bucky says, licking his lips and looking a little dazed. His face is flushed, and Steve can't tell if it's from arousal or embarrassment, or both, but it's cute. "You gonna show me?"

Steve slips off his lap and holds out a hand to haul Bucky off the couch, leading him down the hall to the bedroom. Bucky sits on the edge of the bed and looks up at Steve with an expression torn between such naked want and uncertainty it makes Steve's breath catch. He brings his hands up to Bucky's face, smoothing his thumbs over his rough cheeks and feeling something tender beat heavy wings against his ribs. "You okay?"

Bucky laughs self-deprecatingly. "Yeah it's just the first time since…" He nods toward his left shoulder. "Wish I could throw you on the bed and fuck you 'til you're hoarse, but I'm not sure how all the logistics work now." He gives Steve a lopsided grin that doesn't quite reach his eyes.

_Oh, honey._ "Well," Steve says, leaning down to kiss that sweet mouth. "Tell you what, if you want, I can take care of all those logistics for you tonight."

"Yeah?" Bucky says, gripping Steve's ass and hauling him closer.

"Yeah," Steve says, sliding a knee onto the bed beside Bucky's hip. "I don't know if you know this about me, but I'm kind of an expert at logistics, Buck." He pushes at Bucky's shoulders until he lays back, and crawls over him. "Got my license and everything."

Bucky grins up at him, wrapping his hand around the back of Steve's neck and dragging him down for a kiss. "Far be it from me to argue with an expert," he says against Steve's mouth.

Steve kisses the laugh out of his mouth and sits back, extremely aware of the hard line of Bucky's cock under his thigh. "God we are wearing far too many clothes, what's wrong with us."

Uncertainty comes over Bucky's face again. "I can keep my shirt on, if you want," he says, and that bruised feeling pulses to life in Steve's chest.

"You keep it on if _you_ want," he says. "But not for my benefit. You're not the only one here with scars."

"It's not pretty, Steve," Bucky says quietly.

"Doesn't have to be," Steve says simply. "It's not going to deter me from sitting on your dick in a minute."

Bucky chokes out a laugh. "Okay, then."

He closes his eyes and pulls off his shirt, and Steve holds his breath, waiting for the impact and it's...so much less than what he'd braced himself for. What's left of Bucky's upper arm is pale and thin, shiny with pale pink scars, some surgical, some clearly not, but mostly it's just—incidental. Bucky is in his bed, bared to the waist, warm and trembling under Steve's hands. His eyes are closed and his hand is curled into a loose fist on the bed. Steve can see the fast beat of his pulse in his neck, and he is abruptly aware of the level of trust Bucky's put in him. Steve's got a long, thin scar from the base of his neck to just above his tailbone where they inserted rods and screws to straighten out his spine as a teenager. He mostly doesn't even think about it anymore, but he remembers how sensitive he was about it for years after, when the scar was still dark enough to be noticeable. How nervous he'd felt, the first time he'd gotten naked with someone, and how uncomfortable he'd been when they'd tried to pay special attention to his scar, like it had any more meaning than a freckle or a birthmark. He wants to do better for Bucky.

Steve leans forward, pressing his mouth to the center of Bucky's chest, sucking kisses down the long line of his torso, over his trembling stomach, and licks along the edge of his waistband. He's not going to tell Bucky's he's beautiful, he's not going to kiss his scars, or tell him it doesn't matter. He's just going to treat it like Bucky does—a fact; no more or less interesting than his right arm.

"Steve," Bucky says on a stuttering breath, his hand threading through Steve's hair, not to hold him or direct him but just to touch. Steve leans back, popping the button on Bucky's jeans and pulling them down his hips, nearly genuflecting at the sight of Bucky's cock straining against his boxers.

"Jesus, Bucky," Steve says, tracing the shape of it with his fingers, huffing out a laugh when Bucky swears. "Would have gotten on my knees for you on the train if you'd whipped this out for me."

"Fucking size queen," Bucky mutters, his face gone red. "I should have known."

"I'm sort of offended that you didn't to be honest," Steve says, slipping down the bed to lay between Bucky's thighs. He mouths over the wet spot staining the front of Bucky's underwear, sucking gently on the thick head through the fabric. Bucky tastes salty and clean and Steve moans when he bucks his hips against his face.

"You're gonna kill me," Bucky murmurs, his eyes glued to Steve's mouth. And well, Steve isn't above putting on a show for him. He tugs his boxers down until just the fat, flushed head of him is exposed, kissing at the tip and running his tongue along the ridge of him. Bucky's back arches, his hand tightening in Steve's hair when he slips his mouth over the head and sucks.

Bucky is almost writhing, breath heaving and face flushed. "Steve, you gotta—I'm gonna come just from this, swear to god."

"The thing is, Buck, I really love sucking cock." He licks at the bead of precome welling at the tip. "I mean, I _love_ it, and you've got such a pretty, fat dick, I'd probably be hoarse for hours after."

"Fuck, Steve," Bucky hisses, jerking as Steve tongues that spot just under the head.

"But if I'm honest?" Steve says, pulling down Bucky's boxers the rest of the way until they meet the jeans bunched around his knees. "Now that I've seen it? I think I might cry if I don't get fucked tonight."

He gasps a laugh when Bucky's hand tightens in his shirt and hauls him up. Bucky's mouth is hungry and sloppy on his, all teeth and tongue and little desperate sounds that drive Steve crazy. He's tugging at Steve's shirt and Steve doesn't waste any time peeling it off and throwing it across the room. It's barely over his head when Bucky's on him, surging up to mouth along his chest and lick at a nipple. Steve makes a high, embarrassing sound and Bucky grins against his skin and does it again, dragging his teeth gently and then sucking at it.

"Bucky," Steve moans when his mouth drags to the other side, and Bucky's thumb runs firm circles over his nipple gone wet and sensitive.

Bucky lays back on the bed, hand tracing firm lines over Steve's torso, fitting his thumb into the sensitive dip at Steve's hip just above the waistband of his shorts. His eyes are dark and his voice is a little rough when he says, "think you're still wearing too many clothes, honey."

Steve had honestly forgotten about his own dick situation, somehow. "Uh, yep, let’s fix that." He pitches himself sideways onto the bed and tugs off his shorts unceremoniously, and then flips over to reach the nightstand to grab wipes, lube, and condoms.

"Ah!" He jerks in surprise when he feels the warm weight of Bucky's hand cupping his bare ass.

"Sorry!" Bucky says, snatching his hand back.

"Uh, excuse me," Steve says, smirking over his shoulder and tossing the lube in Bucky's direction. "Get back there. You've got some logistics to take care of."

Bucky grins, his cheeks still flushed with embarrassment, or maybe it's just arousal at this point. He rolls over until he's laying between Steve's legs and kisses down the curve of one cheek, running his tongue along the crease where it meets his thigh. Steve shivers and Bucky hums, biting gently. "You weren't kidding," he says, voice low and full of his smile. "It really is even better out of the shorts."

Steve does a little wiggle on the bed, just make Bucky laugh, with the side benefit of getting some much-needed friction on his dick. Bucky slaps his ass gently and Steve hears the _click_ of the lube opening and then a pause. Bucky clears his throat. "Can you, uh, hold yourself open for a second?"

Steve grins into the covers and reaches both hands back to spread himself, arching his back a little while he's at it. Bucky groans a quiet, "jesus _fuck_ ," and Steve feels the cool drizzle of lube, and then the gentle slide of Bucky's finger through the slick. Bucky opens him up slowly, with more gentleness and care than Steve frankly has the patience for, but by the time Bucky slips in a third finger Steve feels like pulled taffy, languid and warm as though he's been laying in the sun, anticipation beating slow and heavy in his blood.

Bucky crooks his fingers and Steve can't help but arch into it and hum into the covers. "Christ, Steve," Bucky murmurs, leaning over him like a wall of warmth and brushing a kiss between his shoulder blades. "Fucking gorgeous." He moves his fingers again, rubbing them slowly over that spot inside him that makes little lightning strikes in his brain, makes him want to spread his legs wider and beg.

"Okay," he says breathlessly. "I'm good, come on. I'm ready."

"Alright," Bucky says, and Steve can tell without looking he's grinning when he crooks his fingers again, just to see Steve writhe a little more. "If you're sure."

"You can keep going if you want me to come like this," Steve mumbles, thrusting his hips for a little friction. "'s long as you're okay with ending the night with a mediocre handjob instead of fucking me."

"Tempting," Bucky says, pulling out his fingers slowly. "But I was promised you sitting on my dick." He slaps Steve's ass and rolls over onto his back, looking at him expectantly.

Steve sighs dramatically and rolls onto his knees. "If I must."

He notices Bucky's got his hand kind of hovering, fingers curled in a loose fist as though he's not sure where he's allowed to touch— _oh_. Steve grabs a wet wipe and holds out a hand for Bucky's. "Want me to clean you up?"

Bucky smiles shyly. "Uh, sure. Thanks."

Steve wipes off Bucky's fingers quickly and thoroughly, and then slicks his own hand up and wraps it around Bucky's dick, affecting a bored expression and giving him a couple lazy strokes. "You sure this isn't what you want, Buck?"

Bucky smiles, eyes closed. "I mean, I'm not complaining. It's nice to have someone else do it for me, for a change."

Steve rolls his eyes and grabs the condom, holding the edge with his teeth and ripping it open with his dry hand. He slides it over Bucky's cock and drizzles it with a little more lube, and then straddles him, reaching back to hold his cock steady and sink slowly onto it.

The stretch is amazing, it always is, there's nothing like the way it feels to full like this, but it feels—it's more this time. Bucky's eyes are wide and dark, and they're looking at _him_ , not at the sight of himself disappearing into Steve, but like he wants to catalogue every expression on Steve's face. His hand is clamped on Steve's thigh but his thumb is rubbing absent circles and he's biting his bottom lip and he's shiny pink all down his torso, contrasting so prettily with the dark hair curling at his chest and below his navel and Steve just wants to give him everything. Ride him so good and deep and make him feel it—make him feel _this_. Whatever this is.

He gives himself a minute to adjust, hands braced on Bucky's heaving chest. He can feel Bucky's heart pounding a frantic beat under his palm and when he rolls his hips, he feels it trip and stutter. Steve smiles and gets to work. He sets a slow, dirty grind and it isn't long before Bucky's panting and swearing, sweat on his face, his fingers clutching at Steve's hip so hard he knows he'll have bruises. Good.

"Fuck, Steve," Bucky pants. "You look so good like this. Can't even—" Steve leans down to kiss him deep and sloppy, and they both moan when it changes the angle. Bucky thrusts up into Steve, and he can't help the high, breathless moan that rips out of him at the feel of Bucky shoving right up against his prostate.

"Fuck," Steve moans. Bucky's arm comes around him to hold him down while he fucks up into him, fast and hard, their skin slapping, panting into each others' mouths, no coordination left to even kiss. "Bucky, god you're—I'm gonna come."

"Let me see it," Bucky nearly growls, hand shifting to grasp at Steve's ass roughly. "Come on, show me, honey."

Steve levers himself up on one arm and wraps a fist around his cock with the other, stroking himself in time with Bucky's relentless pace. He can't look away from Bucky's face, Bucky's eyes moving in a near-frantic circuit from Steve's face to his hand and back again, like he can't decide if he'd rather see Steve come or _see Steve come_. He makes a little breathless sound when Steve spills over his hand and onto Bucky's stomach with a drawn out moan, seizing up around Bucky's cock and falling forward onto his chest. Bucky's thrusts go frantic, and then he's arching up into Steve, holding him in place with a hand on his hip as he pushes deep and shakes apart under him.

They lay in a panting, sweaty pile for a moment before Steve finds the energy to reach down and hold the end of the condom and roll off Bucky. He feels Bucky do the same beside him, hears the sticky noises of him taking off the condom and tying it off and putting it...somewhere, who cares. Bucky settles down beside him, pressing his face to Steve's side and laying his arm over his stomach. It feels… it's good. Sweet. He slides a hand into Bucky's sweating hair, pushing it off his forehead and running his fingers through the strands. He's got pretty hair.

Bucky kisses his side, the ticklish bit of skin stretched over his ribs and Steve squirms and huffs out a laugh. "Stop, I can't," he nearly slurs.

"Can't what?" Bucky says, voice muffled by Steve's ribcage.

"I dunno," Steve says lazily. "Anything. Don't wanna." He curls onto his side and Bucky's arm curls around him, tucking him close. He kisses at Bucky's neck because it's right there, and Bucky's fingers are tracing shapes onto his back and it's just _so good_ that for a second, Steve wonders if he's going to cry. His chest feels tight, like that tender thing inside him is spreading its wings, growing too big for its cage.

He tips his head up to find Bucky's mouth, and Bucky kisses him so slow and sweet, his hand running up his spine to fit itself over Steve's neck, kneading gently like he had the other night, like he can tell Steve needs it. How does Bucky know how to touch him, how does he know how to be so sweet? Steve doesn't know what to do with this feeling, it's too much to hold inside his body, he's gonna crack open, spill it all out at Bucky's feet.

Bucky pulls back with a small smile. "You got clean towels somewhere, or are those still in the dryer?"

Steve narrows his eyes, grateful for the distraction. "No," he says pointedly. "They're folded on the rack in the bathroom, thank you."

"I'll be right back," Bucky says, rolling away.

Steve nods, feeling abruptly cold in the absence of Bucky's heat pressed against him, but grateful for a minute to collect himself. He fumbles blindly for the wet wipes and wipes off what he hasn't already smeared on the comforter. Oops. Maybe Bucky will stay the night, then they won't need the extra blanket.

He's not exactly surprised by his casual anticipation of Bucky staying, but it is a little weird. Typically he's pulling on his pants and heading out within twenty minutes, and glad for it. He hasn't really wanted anyone in his space for a long time, but the thought of going to bed alone tonight feels lonely and wrong. He wants to curl up with Bucky tonight and wake up hugging the life out of him tomorrow, when he doesn't have a blinding headache and Bucky doesn't have to rush off to work and they can just breathe a little. The thought of it, even inside his own head, makes him feel self-conscious and a little raw.

He sighs at himself for being ridiculous and gets up to find his shorts, and shuffles out to the kitchen to grab some water for them both. He stops short on the threshold when he finds Bucky already there, his back a long, scarred line in the dim light coming in from the kitchen window. Steve's fingers itch for a pencil, before he takes in the way his arm is gripping the counter, the tight line of his shoulders and the way he's breathing, fast and shallow.

"Hey, Buck," he says quietly, stepping up behind him and laying a hand on his heaving back. "Are you—"

"Can you," Bucky bites out, and Steve can tell he's trying to be gentle, even despite whatever's happening, "give me just a second?"

"Yeah," Steve says, stumbling back and feeling shell-shocked. "Yeah, of course. I—I'll just be in the bedroom, okay?"

Bucky nods tightly and takes a deep, stuttering breath. It feels wrong to leave him there, struggling to breathe in the dark kitchen, but Steve backs away slowly and walks down the hall, feeling hollow and cold in a way he can't name.

He sits on the edge of the bed, and then abruptly stands and starts stripping the bed, balling up the sheets and comforter and throwing them into the corner of the room where his laundry basket usually sits. Shit. He's gotta remember to go get his clothes from the basement. He grabs another set of of bedclothes from the closet and is just shoving the last pillow into its case when Bucky shuffles in, looking flushed and embarrassed.

"Are you okay?" Steve asks, dropping the pillow and moving toward Bucky, and then stopping mid-stride, unsure.

Bucky runs a hand over his face and nods, blowing out a shaky breath. "Yeah, I'm sorry for that." He steps toward Steve and without questioning it, Steve steps into his open arm. Bucky's shaking, his heart still beating a little fast, but his arm is tight around Steve and he presses a kiss to Steve's temple.

"What's wrong?" Steve asks.

He feels Bucky take a deep breath. "Sometimes panic attacks come out of nowhere, for no reason. I'm sorry if I was rude."

"Hey, fuck that," Steve says, leaning back so he can look at Bucky. His eyes are wet and his mouth a little tremulous and it shoots an arrow right through Steve's ribs. "Was it something—did we—you can tell me if—"

"No!" Bucky says, rubbing his back. "No, it was good. It was perfect. It was just… you know, a lot for me. Even good things can be stressful, you know?"

"Yeah," Steve says, thinking about his own reaction. "You okay now?"

"Just embarrassed," Bucky mutters.

"Don't be." He rubs a hand over Bucky's back, feeling the goosebumps under his fingers. "Come on, it's cold. Let's get in bed."

They climb under the covers, bodies coming together in the middle like magnets until their legs are tangled and Steve's laying half-draped over Bucky, not unlike the way they woke up yesterday. He can't quite believe that was only yesterday.

"Does that happen a lot?" Steve asks when they're settled.

"Not as often as it used it, but sometimes yeah," Bucky says quietly. "I'm much better than I was, but I'm still dealing with a lot. I'm never really going to be done dealing with it. You should know that if this…goes anywhere."

"We all have our own shit, Buck," Steve says, pressing a kiss to Bucky's chest. "Yours is just heavier than most. I'm not going to hold that against you."

Bucky squeezes him lightly. "Same for you."

Steve knows this is the moment, the opening for some baring of his own soul, but he can't quite make himself say the words. So instead he says, "Do you regret it? Everything you went through?"

Bucky takes a deep breath and goes quiet for a moment before he says, "I don't spend a lot of time thinking about what ifs—I gotta focus on the things in front of me, the stuff I can actually change. That's important. But, if I could go back in time to the day I met that recruiter? I would punch myself in the fucking throat. I was such a dumb kid, falling for that shiny lie, and the things I've done—" He shakes his head, swallows hard. "The army is full of good people, you know? Most of us were out there for good reasons. We wanted to do good. We wanted to be good. But the fact is I fought a dirty, corrupt war for dirty, corrupt people, and I'll never be able to change that." He takes in a shaky breath. "I regret the blood on my hands. But I accept the price I paid—am paying—for what I've done."

Steve knows however he responds to that won't be enough—he doesn't have the context, the scope to understand what Bucky's been through. He squeezes Bucky and leans up to press a soft kiss to his mouth. "I can't—I'm not going to tell you you're wrong to feel that way, I'm just going to say that from what I've seen, and not to be a creep but I've been watching you for awhile—" Bucky huffs out a laugh. "You've been nothing but kind at every turn, Buck. Even to the asshole who stole your face."

"Well, it's a good face," Bucky says, voice a little thick.

"Yeah," Steve says, kissing him again, and settling his head back on his chest.

**:: :: ::**

Steve wakes up early the next morning, an annoying side effect of his erratic schedule. He eases back from his full-body clamp around Bucky and slides out of the bed as quietly as possible, padding to the bathroom to take a piss and get some water. He stops short in the bedroom doorway when he returns, arrested by the sight of Bucky in his bed. He's turned onto his side, facing the door, limned in weak, early morning light through the cracks in the blinds. And he is so beautiful Steve can hardly breathe.

He grabs his sketchbook and settles back down in the doorway to map out the lines of Bucky's body. He never wants to forget this.

Steve is in the kitchen when Bucky wakes forty five minutes later, toasting up the last of his bread and spreading peanut butter on it. It's not the most romantic morning after breakfast, but it'll have to do.

"Hey," Bucky says, wrapping his arm around Steve from behind and tucking his face into Steve's neck. He can tell Bucky used the toothbrush he laid out for him; he smells minty and his mouth is cool when he presses a kiss to Steve's bare shoulder. It’s such a small gesture, but the easy affection and the way he melts into it without thinking feels immense to Steve. It makes his chest tight, that _too good, too much_ feeling welling up in him again until he feels like he’s going to burst at the seams. "Sorry I slept so late."

Steve laughs. "Uh, it's seven-thirty, Buck. You're fine." He passes back a piece of toast and nods toward the other end of the counter. "There's coffee if you want it."

"God, yes." Bucky sighs, and crunches into his piece of toast on the way to the pot. "You gotta work today?"

Steve leans back against the counter, watching Bucky being uncharacteristically uncoordinated. He's cute in the morning. "Not until tonight."

"Aw," Bucky says through a mouthful of toast. "The Sunday special?"

"Yep," Steve says, taking a sip of his coffee. "But I've got a bunch of shit to take care of today, so it works out." He needs to leave soon, actually, if he wants to make it to Manhattan before the trains get unbearably crowded. It's been a Sunday tradition since his mom got sick to bring her flowers from the little florist on Front Street, and some matzo ball soup from the deli next door, and even now, when she probably won’t be awake, and wouldn’t be able to eat the soup even if she was, it would still feel wrong not to. Like admitting defeat.

Bucky nods. "Yeah, me too. What time do you need to leave? I brought one of my handguns, if you want that tutorial." He smiles around his last bite of toast and looks so unbearably cute and rumpled, it would be physically impossible for Steve to deny him anything.

"Yeah, I've got some time," he says. He's got all day. He can deal with a crowded train.

**:: :: ::**

"Okay," Bucky says, pulling a black case from his bag and opening it to reveal a matte black gun. "So, this is the one that most closely matches what you've got the Soldier using. This is unloaded, obviously." He pops the chamber so Steve can see for himself that it's empty.

Steve nods and swallows hard. Despite spending a significant amount of time drawing guns, he still manages to know fuck-all about them beyond the details he's googled and/or pestered Sam about. It's the first time he's seeing one in person, and it's making his palms a little sweaty, to be honest. There's definitely some hindbrain knee-jerk fear response happening, but also some dick-related interest at seeing Bucky handling it so casually.

He hands it over to Steve. "Here, show me how you think you should hold it."

Steve grabs it, and then nearly drops it immediately. "Damn, it's heavier than I thought."

Bucky nods. "Even heavier when it's loaded. Show me how you'd point it at someone—whoa, not at me, champ," he says quickly, gently pushing the muzzle away from himself. "Rule number one: never point your gun at someone—even if you think it's unloaded—unless you've got plans to shoot them, okay?"

Steve nods and licks his lips. His heart is beating hard and fast in his throat, stomach tight and jumpy. It's partly that holding a gun makes him incredibly nervous, but mostly that Bucky with that that serious, authoritative note in his voice is absolutely fucking face-meltingly hot. Holy fuck. He points the gun at the wall behind the couch.

Bucky comes up behind Steve, warm and smelling of Steve's shampoo and it goes straight to his dick. He is continually surprised and awed to find his dick will still find some way to respond to things even when the rest of his body is having a crisis.

"First off, you're gonna want to choke up higher on the grip," Bucky says. "Your three knuckles should be just under the trigger there—yeah, like that, and your pointer finger should fit along this line here, and this end should rest right between your thumb and forefinger." He adjusts Steve's grip, and then reaches down for Steve's left hand. "Always a two-handed grip. Wrap this hand around the other side, yep. Yeah, your thumb goes—good, exactly. It feels more secure in your hand now, yeah?"

"Yeah," Steve croaks, legitimately sweating at being moved around like a mannequin.

"So this is how Soldier should be holding his gun," Bucky says, wrapping his hand around Steve's wrist and tugging his arm up until Steve's got the gun held in a straight line from his shoulders. He's pressed right up tight to Steve's back, and Steve can _feel_ every word he says vibrating through him and it's too much. He's just one, very horny, very gay human. There's only so much he can take.

"People want to talk about the proper stance a lot, but honestly in a combat situation who cares as long as you're balanced so you're not gonna land on your ass—"

"Bucky," Steve says desperate, placing the gun carefully on the table and spinning around.

"You okay?" Bucky frowns.

"Yeah, sorry but I'm just going to have to suck your dick right now." He drops to his knees, fumbling with the button on Bucky's pants. "It's important. Life or death. Can't be helped."

Bucky barks out a laugh. "I don't understand what's happening here but I'm not going to question it. Do what you gotta do, pal."

Steve sketches what he knows from Sam is a fucking travesty of a salute, and applies himself to polishing Bucky's gun.

**:: :: ::**

They don't end up leaving the house until nearly four, taking a long hot shower together and then ending up tangled on Steve's couch, making out for most of the afternoon between episodes of _How It's Made_ and folding Steve's laundry. Steve should feel guilty about wasting the entire day, there's no way he can make it to Manhattan and back before his shift now, but he feels too fucking good to beat himself up about it. He can go tomorrow, spend the morning with his mom before his shift at Erskine's. Right now he's too fucking giddy to give this up, skin buzzing with it, brain humming in a way he hasn't felt in months. He feels _alive_.

Bucky kisses him for the fourth time since they walked outside. "When are you off next?"

"Get my schedule for next week tonight," he says between kisses. "I'll let you know."

"Okay." Bucky smiles down at him and ruffles his hair. "Hopefully work doesn't suck too much tonight—don't," he says when Steve opens his mouth.

Steve laughs. "Ugh, fine. Go away now. I gotta go."

"One more," Bucky says, smacking a kiss on his mouth. "Okay, I'm going. See you." He backs away, smiling big and cheesy, and Steve's gotta turn and walk away toward the train in the opposite direction or he's gonna chase after him and tackle him to the dirty ground.

He spends the entire train ride sketching Buck and smiling to himself like an absolute asshole, and when his phone buzzes in his pocket as he steps out of the station, he pulls it out expecting to see something dumb from Bucky.

Instead, it's a voicemail from the hospice.

_"Steve, this is Dr. Thomas from Compassionate Care. Please give me a call as soon as you receive this message, regarding your mother, Sarah Rogers. Thank you."_


	5. Chapter 5

Natasha and Clint are tangled on the couch when Bucky gets home, and he’s not sure if the reason he feels like crying is because he’s relieved to be home or preemptively overwhelmed at the questions he knows are coming. But Nat just smiles at him and Clint waves without looking up from where he’s sprawled between Natasha’s legs, watching TV. 

“What are you still doing here?” Bucky asks Nat as he unlaces his boots by the door. She’s usually on the train back to DC by this time on Sunday. 

She shrugs. “I’m taking the early train tomorrow.”

He narrows his eyes. “So you could babysit me if I was a wreck?”

She narrows hers right back. “So I could check in with you before I left for the week, yes.”

“Well, I’m fine,” he says, in a tone that he is very aware conveys that he is not fine, actually. And it’s not that he’s _not_ okay, but he’s cycled through every known human emotion in the last twenty-four hours, and even if most of it was brain-meltingly good, it was still a lot to process at once. He feels wrung out and a little raw, like he needs a full twelve hours in a dark room to get himself back to baseline.

Which he won’t get, because he knows from experience that way lies panic attacks and dissociative episodes. So he’ll do the next best thing. “I’m going to take a bath,” he says. 

“Okay,” Nat says, and turns back to the TV.

“I’m gonna go pick up dinner in a few,” Clint says, looking at Bucky over his shoulder. “What sounds good?”

He can actually physically feel his brain grind to a halt at the prospect of making another decision for himself today. “Surprise me,” he says, and walks down the hall to the bathroom. 

He runs the water as hot as he can stand, and the loud rush of it into the tub is a relief; it fills up his head until he can’t focus on anything else. He stands there a moment, eyes closed and naked in front of the tub, and takes ten measured breaths. When he opens his eyes, he feels steadier, more present, and goes to grab his bath stuff from under the sink and dump some in the water. The scent of spiced rose fills the air around him, and he breaths it deep. 

The water burns when he steps in the tub, his skin goes red and sweat begins to bead immediately along his hairline and behind his knees. It feels good. Overwhelming in a way that shuts his brain off as he submerges himself as much as possible. He braces his feet on the opposite wall above the faucet and lets his head and shoulders sink below the water. The noise of the tap is a deep rumbling static under the surface, and he imagines the heat of the water seeping into his skin, sinking into his bones, smoothing out all the places in him gone jittery and jagged. 

He emerges slowly when the need for air supersedes his need for escape, and turns off the tap just in time, settling back against the tub with his knees raised like bright pink mountains above the frothy water. It’s abruptly too quiet, but he feels steadier now, less overwhelmed. He leans his head back against the wall, closes his eyes and imagines himself cracking a door in his brain, letting one emotion at a time come through. He pictures them like tiny creatures in business clothes, briefcases and blazers, a newspaper under one arm and a ticket in their hand. Admit one. 

He snorts at himself, the sound echoing against the porcelain and tile. Wouldn’t that be nice. 

It’d been one of the hardest things to learn when he came back, how much effort it takes to process things now. That was why Dr. C had suggested the schedule, to help his brain learn to anticipate, to give himself some mental muscle memory in the hopes that if he mastered the things within his control, he'd have more mental bandwidth to deal with the surprises. It was like building little boundary walls inside his days—at first it was basic things like eating meals and taking his meds and going to sleep at specific times, and when those things became manageable, he moved the boundary lines. A walk to the corner store. Doing his PT exercises. Practicing how to do a task one-handed. And then he'd move the boundaries again. Going to the VA. Then actually speaking to people at the VA. Visiting Josie at the bar. Getting a job. Each time he was able to widen his boundaries, he'd felt accomplished, proud at the measurable progress he'd made.

But now, he’s not sure he’s been doing anything but building bigger cages for himself. He’d deliberately left his schedule blank after _7:30pm: pick up tacos_ last night, out of necessity and also as a test: could he handle it? And he had. Steve’d proved distraction enough to make him forget to check the time, to be anxious about what he should be doing next. But with every step further from Steve today, he’d felt anxiety trickle back in and drown out the giddy euphoria. He didn’t have a plan. He was heading to the train station, but what train was he taking? He didn’t know what time it would arrive or when he would get home. And even knowing it didn’t matter--it didn’t matter what time the train got there, it didn’t matter what time he got home, he had nothing to do and nowhere to be--it still made something inside his head scream. He spent the entire twenty minute ride feeling unhinged, like he might shatter into pieces if someone looked at him wrong.

It is so fucking demoralizing to realize how far he still has to go, even after three years of continuous work. Will he always be like this? Will the good things always end up eclipsed by this bullshit? He hates that he can’t even bask in the aftermath of the extremely fucking good night he had without his neuroses barrelling through the door and holding him at gunpoint as they rob him of his enjoyment.

Ugh. No. He refuses to live like this. He knows he will never be free from his issues entirely, but he has to find a way to let the good things be louder than the background noise. 

He presses gently on the small, tender bruise just below his collarbone, where Steve had bitten down when Bucky jerked him off in the shower this morning. He likes it, the physical reminder of how he spent his night. And his morning. And his afternoon. He deliberately makes himself think of the way Steve’s mouth and hands felt on him, the way it felt to sink inside him, his smooth warm skin and the taste of him. The way he’d looked on top of Bucky, skin shiny with sweat and pink with exertion, mouth red and swollen, eyes half-lidded and dark. He loved watching Steve, the shameless way he took and gave pleasure, the way he was so clearly in control of and present in his own body. God, it had felt good to let go, to let Steve lead him through it and give himself up to it. 

He knows the immensity of it was not the same for Steve--how could it be. But still, it’d seemed more to Steve than just a casual fuck. He tries to think about it rationally, objectively, but he doesn’t think it’s just wishful thinking. The way he looks at Bucky sometimes is like he can’t see anything else, and he has this way of leaning in to Bucky’s touch, like he doesn’t even realize he’s asking for more. Bucky’s suspects if he knew, he wouldn’t do it, which makes it all the more endearing. 

He smiles at the memory of it, and his heart does a lazy somersaults in his chest. He didn’t set out to have real feelings for Steve, but it was just so easy to slide into this warm affection for him. He doesn’t know how much of that is the novelty of interacting with someone new--would it have mattered who he’d met on that train? Would anyone have made him feel like this? He’s not sure. Maybe it doesn’t matter--maybe it doesn’t matter why he feels this way, only that he does. He can let himself enjoy it for however long it lasts without ruining it by overthinking. 

Well, he can try anyway. 

He steps out of the cooling water and drains the tub, making sure to rinse the suds that cling to the sides because he’s not an animal. He dries off and sprays some detangler on his wet hair before running a comb through it, and shuffles off to his room to pull on some pajamas. He feels pleasantly tired now, the physical exertion and the lack of sleep of the last few days catching up with him. He’s hungry too, and glad Clint is picking up dinner. It’s technically Bucky’s night to cook, but he doesn’t think he has the energy. 

He waits for the twinge of anxiety to set in, the alarm bells to ring at his deviation from routine, but there’s nothing. 

He’s smiling when he walks into the living room, and sits down on the floor in front of Nat. “Will you braid my hair?” he asks as a peace offering. She shifts behind him, and takes the comb and pins from him when he offers them. 

“So,” she says, and then lets it hang because she’s evil.

“So I’m fine,” he says. “I had a really good night and I was feeling a little overwhelmed when I got home, but I’m good. It was good.” He squeezes her foot. “You don’t have to worry so much.”

She kicks him gently. “It’s my job to worry about you. You’re family.”

The truth of that never stops feeling groundbreaking. He lost his parents at sixteen, joined the army at eighteen when he was still reeling from the impact of their deaths, and never thought he’d have a true family again. And then Clint and Nat barrelled into his life and practically adopted him on the spot--well, to be fair, Nat adopted them both, taking one look at the two sniper twins and deciding they were hers. They didn’t really have much choice in the matter, but they weren’t dumb enough to argue either. 

“So like, was it good or _good_?” Natasha asks, the grin evident in her voice as she uses the edge of the comb to separate his hair into sections. “On a scale of one to dicksplosion?” She hits him when he laughs. “Stay still, I’m trying to make you pretty.”

“I can’t believe people think you’re the competent one when you say things like dicksplosion,” he says. And then, “and you’re married to someone who advised me to quote _rip the bandaid off my dick_. God, you guys really deserve each other.”

“Yeah,” she says in a tone that means she is definitely batting her eyes obnoxiously. “But you didn’t answer my question.” She pokes him in the rib with her toe. 

“A twelve on the dicksplosion scale,” he tells her, because he knows she won’t leave him alone until he answers the question. 

“Wow, impressive.” She pauses. “I feel like a proud mom, which is weird on a lot of levels.”

“Thanks for being supportive of my sex life, mom,” he says. “I couldn’t have done him without you.”

“Hush,” she says with a laugh. 

His eyes close of their own volition as she starts braiding his hair into a loose crown, feeling drowsy and warm in their quiet living room.

“I’m proud of you, you know,” she says after a few minutes. 

“Thanks, mom.” 

She tugs on his hair. “Don’t be a brat, I mean it. I know how hard you’ve worked to get yourself here. You had to make your life really small for a long time to cope with everything, and the way you’ve managed to open yourself back up to people and experiences this year has been...really great to see.”

He shrugs. “Still a long way to go if I have to go freak out in the bathtub because I spent the night with a boy.”

“There’s no finish line,” she says simply. “You do what you can with what you’ve got at the time. And look, freaking out in the bathtub after sex is not restricted to fucked up people like us. Sex is messy and complicated for everyone. Even this twelve on the dickter scale guy, I bet.”

“God, you’re awful,” Bucky says. 

“Yeah,” she says, and he can tell she’s grinning. 

Clint comes home with Indian a few minutes later, and they all pile on the couch to stuff their faces and watch _Monster Hunters_. It all feels so normal. His minor freakout aside, this could be any Sunday night in their house. It feels good, to know he can handle something monumental with minimal fallout. 

It’s not until he gets in bed that night--at his normal time, Rome wasn’t razed in a day--that he registers he hasn’t heard from Steve all evening. Maybe the bar is actually busy this Sunday. Or maybe Steve needs a little space to process too. Either way, he falls asleep almost as soon as his head hits the pillow.

**:: :: ::**

When he doesn’t have a text from Steve in the morning, he’s disappointed but not overly concerned--if Steve was as tired as Bucky, he probably passed out as soon as he got home. When he hasn’t heard from him by the time he leaves work at two, he sends a quick text and hopes he’s not being too clingy.

_**Hey, hope you got some sleep last night. Let me know if you want to make plans for sometime this week.** _

He watches the screen for a few minutes, and when he doesn’t see the typing bubble pop up, he puts it away in his bag and vows not to look at it again until after PT, which is painful enough to be a great distraction. Still no answer, so he puts his phone away again. He’ll look after dinner. 

Nothing. 

He doesn’t sleep much that night.

**:: :: ::**

__  
**Hey Steve, just checking in. I hope everything’s okay.**  


**:: :: ::**

_“Hi this is Steve, leave me a message and I’ll get back to you eventually.”_

“Hey, Steve it’s Wednesday--uh, this is Bucky, by the way. Haven’t heard from you in a couple days, just wanted to make sure you’re okay. Call me if get this. Or text, I guess. Okay. Um, bye.”

**:: :: ::**

By Friday he is ready to vibrate out of his own skin. He is vacillating wildly between worry and rage and a sick kind of hurt that feels more physical than emotional; his skin feels rubbed raw and he aches right down to his bones. He knows it’s very possible that he projected some of his own more intense feelings onto Steve, but even if Steve was only interested in getting laid, he’s not the kind of guy who would just disappear from someone’s life with no explanation. Right? He doesn’t really know what evidence he has to back that up, except the impression that Steve is someone who is upfront and honest when he can be.

In retrospect--and wow is there a lot of time to analyze every one of their interactions in minute detail when you’ve barely slept in three days--he realizes he doesn’t actually know that much about Steve at all. Sure he knows some of his medical history and his art style, knows he has a tendency to run headlong into fights, knows he works too much and sleeps too little, but Steve the person? What he thinks, what he feels, what is going on in his life? Not much, beyond what Bucky’s extrapolated from his writing.

He keeps replaying that night and the next day in his head, looking for signs that Steve was less into it than he seemed. Did Bucky’s panic attack freak Steve out more than he let on? Maybe--was it his arm? Maybe Steve decided Bucky had too much baggage to bother with. And while any of those are plausible, and the absolute asshole that lives in his fucking weasel brain has had a field day with each one of those options, he just can’t accept it. 

He doesn’t want to believe that he imagined their connection, doesn’t want to have to parse every conversation to look for a sign of deceit, a moment that would explain Steve’s sudden absence. He knows he’s not the first person to be ghosted, but he honestly cannot imagine why Steve would do it. He can’t shake the feeling that something is very, very wrong. Is he sick? Is he hurt? If something happened to him, no one would know to contact Bucky. 

And he hates that the idea of something bad happening to Steve is easier to swallow than the alternative. 

“What do I do,” he says, voice muffled by Natasha’s thighs, laying with his head in her lap and his legs over Clint’s. “Should I go over there tomorrow, see if he’ll talk to me? Or is that just over the top desperate at this point?”

She sighs and runs a hand through his hair. “I’m about ready to go over there and bust his door down myself.”

“I’ll hold your earrings,” Clint says, his voice uncharacteristically tight. 

“I don’t know if it’s desperate or not,” Nat says. “But you deserve an answer so you can move on if you need to.” Her legs are rigid beneath his head, nearly trembling with suppressed anger. He loves her so much, even if she makes a shitty pillow to wallow on.

“I hate this,” Bucky says, and cringes at how small and sad he sounds. “Why am I so upset? So what if a guy didn’t call me back? I’m not in middle school anymore, I should be able to fucking handle this without spiraling.” 

Clint pats his leg. “We don’t get any choice in what fucks us up, Buck. You’re handling it fine, and if it turns out this guy is really an asshole, then you’ll handle that too.”

“I know,” Bucky says, sighing. “I know that I will. I just hope I don’t have to.”

“Me too,” Nat says. “I’d hate to have to find a reason to lock him up in some secret alleged government prison somewhere.”

Bucky and Clint go silent, making eye contact over Bucky’s shoulder.

“Um, babe?” Clint says carefully. “I’d like it if you’d continue to be the literally one person in the government we can know for sure is using their power for good.”

“It was a joke,” she says.

“Uh huh,” they say.

**:: :: ::**

Bucky splurges on a Lyft over to Steve’s on Saturday, too jittery to handle the train. He has to pause to take several deep breaths outside of Steve’s building, and walks slowly up the stairs, his heart beating sickly in his throat. Someone comes out of Steve’s door as soon as Bucky reaches the top step--a tall black man, phone pressed to his ear and speaking in a hushed whisper as he locks the door behind him.

“No, Claire’s gonna stay with him while I--” He stops abruptly when he turns around and sees Bucky standing there. “Let me call you back, mom.” He hangs up and makes an almost apologetic face at Bucky. “Uh, you’re Bucky, right? Steve’s friend?”

Bucky nods, swallows hard to unstick his throat. “Is he alright? I haven’t heard from him all week.”

His face creases. “Shit, he didn’t tell you. Of course he didn’t.” He sighs and rolls his eyes upward, as though praying for strength. “Okay, you want to take a walk with me, Bucky? I’m Sam, by the way.” He holds out his hand and Bucky takes it, feeling entirely lost. 

“Uh, okay. But Steve--?”

“He’s sleeping. Claire--my girlfriend, she’s a nurse--finally convinced him to take a sleeping pill. Come on, I got to run to pick up some dinner before he wakes up.” He moves toward the stairs, and Bucky follows. 

Once they’re out on the street, Sam stops and leans against the wall. “Okay, look. Normally I wouldn’t butt my head in here, I have a long-standing policy on just letting Steve make his own stupid ass choices because it’s just easier that way, but this…” He shakes his head, blows out a breath. “I don’t know how much he told you about his mom?”

Bucky shakes his head. “Nothing really. I kind of assumed she’d passed away?”

“She’s been in hospice care for the last couple months, end-stage breast cancer,” Sam says, and the words drop like leaden weights in Bucky’s gut. “She’s been barely hanging on for weeks, and finally passed Sunday afternoon. I’m sorry he didn’t tell you.”

“No, it’s okay,” Bucky says automatically. But is it? Maybe they weren’t at bare their souls level yet, but they’d had some pretty deep conversations. Bucky’d told him about his regrets, about his arm, about--he’d been so open with Steve, and Steve had only given him crumbs. 

“Why?” he asks, embarrassed to find his voice hoarse. “Why wouldn’t he tell me?”

Sam rubs the back of his neck. “You’d have to ask Steve that one. But look, I practically grew up with the guy and he still doesn’t tell me anything unless I drag it out of him. He’s not great at communicating feelings. I wouldn’t take it personally.”

Bucky laughs humorlessly. “Sure.”

“Look, let me take your number. I’ll tell Steve I talked to you, tell him he should give you a call. No promises, but I’ll keep you updated.”

“Thanks--I...yeah, thanks.” He doesn’t know what else to say, just rattles off his number. 

“And listen--again, not my place, but I don’t want the dude to fuck this up if I can help it--I know he really likes you okay? Like, first real smile I’ve seen out of him in a year talking about you kind of like. If you can, just give him some time to get through this.” 

Bucky nods, not trusting himself to speak. Sam claps him on the shoulder and squeezes on his way past, and Bucky calls a cab.

**:: :: ::**

Steve’s room is dark when he wakes up, though maybe that word is too dynamic to describe what actually happens, which is more of a very slow crawl toward full consciousness over a long period of drifting. He can’t honestly tell how long he slept, the blinds are either closed tight enough not to let any light in, or it’s the middle of the night, but he feels like he’s been asleep for at least seventy years or so. It doesn’t feel like long enough.

He feels like rolling over and going right back to sleep, knows he’d have no trouble drifting off if he did. The inside of his head feels cavernous, his body like static, insubstantial and far away. Part of it is the haze from whatever horse pill Claire practically forced down his throat, but most of it, he knows, is just him. He’s empty. 

He thought he’d feel something when the time finally came--some measure of relief, overwhelming grief, renewed anger at the circumstance, but instead he felt nothing at all. The doctor told him she passed easily in her sleep at 3:07pm on Sunday, and as though someone else was operating his body, he’d replied, “Thank you for letting me know,” and asked what the next steps were. 

Later, he stood over her bed, looking down at her pale, slack face and waited for the impact. He touched a gentle finger to her brow, smooth for the first time in months, all the pain erased. Everyone says death is peaceful, but looking down at her face he thought, death is empty. Her body remained, but everything that made it Sarah Rogers had been erased--the sharp, sly eyes closed forever, the mouth with its lopsided, wry smile gone slack and quiet, her busy hands stilled. He catalogued all the pieces missing from her, and he waited for it to mean something, but--nothing.

He shook the hands of everyone who came to the memorial service this morning--yesterday morning? It doesn’t matter. He hugged his mom’s crying friends, he promised to come see them at the hospital soon, to friend them on Facebook, to keep in touch, all the while feeling like he was floating outside his body. It wasn’t that the situation felt surreal, it was that _he_ didn’t feel real. He felt removed, far away. As though he was operating a robot version of himself from another room, setting a stoic expression on its face and moving it about the room.

He doesn’t know how to talk to anyone, so he doesn’t. Sam keeps trying, and Steve knows from experience he’ll succeed eventually, but he just doesn’t have anything to say. How do you describe nothing? What good will saying it out loud do?

He rubs his hands over his numb face and rolls out of bed. He’s got to piss and his mouth feels like something furry built a home there and then tragically died. He shuffles to the bathroom, noting that it’s still daytime, though which day he doesn’t feel qualified to guess. He uses the toilet and washes his face and brushes his teeth, and feels slightly more human when he walks out the living room to find Sam and Claire sprawled in a pile on his couch. Sam looks exhausted, and he can’t see Claire’s face where it’s tucked into his neck, but he bets she doesn’t look any better. 

Their positions remind him of the way he woke up with Bucky--christ, was that just last week? It feels like a year ago. The thought of Bucky makes his chest ache, and he viciously pushes the feeling away. What kind of monster manages to feel sad about ghosting a guy he fucked once and not his own dead mother? 

He slams the kitchen cupboard closed a little too forcefully, making Sam startle awake. “Sorry,” he whispers. Trying to gesture silently to the coffee pot. 

Sam carefully extricates himself from Claire’s grasp and shuffles toward the kitchen, rubbing his eyes. He looks like shit. He looks like someone who cried at his good friend’s funeral this morning. Steve concentrates on measuring coffee grounds. 

“How long did I sleep?” he asks quietly. 

Sam glances at his watch. “Just about eighteen hours.”

Holy shit. “Sorry.”

Sam shrugs, leaning his back against the counter and watching Steve pour water into the coffee pot. It’s an old school model, probably older than Steve. Dingy white plastic exterior, and a pot with the measurements worn off, the plastic handle cracked and barely hanging on. Maybe he can buy a new one now. One of those fancy single cup deals. He doesn’t have hospice bills to pay anymore, after all. 

He knows he won’t.

“You hungry?” Sam asks, and Steve doesn’t turn around, but he can feel Sam’s considering stare on him. Waiting for eye contact, for connection. Steve doesn’t want to give it to him. 

Steve shakes his head. “Not really. Probably just grab a protein shake on my way to the gym.” He watches the coffee drip slowly into the pot, the hiss and the little _pit pat pit_ sounds of the drops hitting the hot glass. 

Steve can actually hear the eyebrow raise in Sam’s voice. “The gym? I think fucking not, Rogers.”

“Not the boss of me, Wilson.” The coffee drips onto the hot plate when he removes the partially full pot and pours it into his mug. He turns toward the refrigerator to grab the milk, stopping short when Sam grabs his arm. 

“Steve.” He’s got his Concerned Eyebrows on, and Steve is abruptly, incandescently angry. He wrenches his arm out of Sam’s grip and spills hot coffee over his hand in the process. 

“ _Fuck_ ,” he yelps, glaring at Sam and mouthing at the burn. “Would you just leave me the fuck alone? I don’t need you to babysit me. I’m _fine_ and you hovering around me like you’re waiting for me to fall apart so you can pick up the pieces is not helping.”

“I’m not waiting for you to fall apart,” Sam spits. “I’m watching it fucking happen in real time. I’m waiting for you to come back online, man.” 

Steve just stares at him. 

“You want to pretend like you’re fine, just like you’ve been pretending you’re fine for the last year, yeah okay we’ll do that dance. But I’m not going to let you push me away while you do it. I’m what you’ve got left, pal. I’m not going anywhere. Deal with it.”

“I don’t know what you want from me!” Steve explodes, hurling his coffee mug at the sink. It hits the metal sides with a thunk and splatter. Couldn’t even give him the satisfaction of shattering. Of course, why would anything go the way he expects it to. 

“You want a heart to heart, Sam? You want to know how I’m feeling? Here’s the truth: I feel fucking nothing. My mom is dead, the only family I got is a pile of ashes, and I can’t dredge up a single goddamn tear. People who saw her for thirty seconds twice a week buying fucking groceries sobbed their heart out, and me, the person she raised? I got nothing. That’s how I’m feeling. You feel better now, Sam? Because I feel fucking great.”

His chest is heaving, his heart slamming against his ribs. He can feel an asthma attack hovering at the edges and tries to slow his breathing, because wouldn’t that just be the icing on this shitty goddamn cake. 

Sam is making reassuring eyebrows at something behind Steve, and Steve is embarrassed to only just now remember Claire was sleeping on the couch until he had a goddamn tantrum. “Sorry,” he mutters, pitching forward to lean his head against the cool metal of the fridge. 

“It’s cool,” she says evenly. “I’m gonna go grab lunch for you guys. Be back in a few.” And then after a pause. “I’m not stitching either of you assholes up when I come back, so keep your hands to yourself.”

“I’ll make Sam stitch me himself when I let him take his lucky shot,” Steve says, relieved when his voice comes out steady.

“Just clean up the blood so I don’t have to,” Claire says, and the door shuts behind her.

Steve sighs. “Sorry for blowing up at you,” he says, turning around and finally meeting Sam’s eye.

“Just go sit your ass down,” Sam says, waving toward the living room. “I’ll bring you some damn coffee.”

Sam brings him coffee and half a bagel a minute later, and settles onto the couch beside Steve with his own mug. “Eat that, you’ll give yourself a stomach ache with nothing but coffee.”

“You know you sound like your mom, right?” Steve says, and then takes a bit of the bagel to cover the way his mouth spasms around the word. 

“Oh, so sensible and correct? Thank you,” he says. And then, after a moment, “look, I’m just going to say this, and then we can put on whatever and chill out for the rest of the day, okay? There’s no right way to grieve. No, shut up and let me say this,” he says when Steve opens his mouth to argue. Steve sits back and clenches his jaw. Sam means well, but what the fuck does he know. “Your mom was gone a long time ago. You’ve been grieving her by inches for months. Maybe you’ve done all the grieving you’re gonna do, maybe it’s going to hit you next week or next month or five years down the road. Doesn’t matter. Not to get all instagram woke on you, but whatever you’re feeling or not feeling is valid. There’s no rule book for this.”

“Nothing is not an okay feeling to have about your _mom dying_ ,” Steve bites out.

Sam spreads his hands. “I get why you think that, and maybe that’s because you’ve got some feelings brewing you’re not ready to deal with yet, I don’t know. I’m just saying--okay, I see that This Is Bullshit look on your face, man. And I’m going to respectfully ask you to fuck off.” Sam’s mouth flattens and he gives Steve a pointed look. “You think I don’t know what I’m talking about? What, you think I went through the five stages of grief in sequential order when Riley died? You think I ticked all those boxes, neat and orderly? Fuck off. I’m telling you I know how it is.” 

Steve abruptly feels small and mean. He knows just how much Sam struggled when he came back, reconciling himself both to civilian life, and to the death of his partner. “I’m sorry, that was out of line. I’m being an asshole.”

“Yeah, well. After a decade I’ve kind of learned to expect it.” He puts a hand on Steve’s shoulder and squeezes, and Steve lets himself lean into it. Sam wraps his arm around Steve’s shoulders and pulls him in, and Steve closes his eyes and breathes deep through the hitch in his chest. 

“One more thing I gotta say, though,” Sam says a minute later. “You planning on getting back in touch with your boy at all?”

Steve tenses up again and moves away, frowning at Sam. “Bucky?” He shakes his head. “I think that’s--that’s done.”

Sam raises those fucking eyebrows again. “You gonna clue him in to that?”

“I haven’t responded to any of his messages in a week, I’m sure he got the picture.”

“Sure didn’t seem like it when he showed up here yesterday, worried as hell about you.” Sam takes a pointed sip of his coffee. 

“Fuck.” Steve covers his face, feeling cracked open. He is such an asshole. Bucky doesn’t deserve any of this. “I’ll--I’ll text him. Call him. Something.”

“To end it,” Sam says flatly. 

“Yeah,” Steve says hollowly. 

“Steve, come on,” Sam says, out of patience. “The guy obviously cares about you if he was willing to show up at your door after being ignored all week. Why push him away?”

“I’m not pushing him away,” Steve mutters. “I’m just--I’m being realistic. Why bring him into this? He’s got enough to deal with in his own life. I don’t need to put my bullshit on him too.”

Sam rolls his eyes upward. “Realistic,” he says. “Here’s a thought, Steve: you ever considered trying some open communication? Using your words? Maybe _telling_ Bucky what’s going on upfront and _asking_ if he feels like taking on your sorry ass?”

Steve frowns. “He’s a nice guy, Sam. He’d say yes, I know he would. And then a few months down the line, when he actually realizes what he signed up for, then what? Then he’s stuck.”

“Steve, for someone as cocky as you are, you really gotta work on your self-esteem, man. You said yourself, he’s got his own issues. You feel like you’d be stuck with them if you guys started dating for real?”

“No, I--that’s different,” Steve says. He doesn’t know how, exactly, but it is. 

“I’m just saying, if it’s all about saving him from your bullshit and not because you don’t have feelings for him, then at least give the guy the dignity of making a choice for himself. He’s got free will, same as you.” Sam pauses as though considering his words, and then sighs. “Just keep in mind, pushing him away punishes him too. You’re not the only one you’re hurting.”

Steve leans forward, resting his forearms on his thighs and rubs his hands over his face. Fuck, he feels--he feels like he’s gone three rounds with Maria in the gym. Tired and sore down to his bones. But at least it’s not nothing anymore.

Sam clicks on the TV and doesn’t say anything else, lets Steve sit in silence until Claire gets back with the food.

**:: :: ::**

Steve goes back to his normal routine on Monday--or close to it. He quit Low Bar now that he doesn’t need the extra paycheck, and had to stop halfway through getting dressed when his recurring alarm went off at 3:30am this morning. He wonders, if he hadn’t seen the cracked coffee mug in the sink, if it would have registered at all. Maybe he’d have made it all the way to Manhattan before it clicked that he’s got no one to see anymore.

He’s got no reason to ride the train with Bucky. 

He thinks about sending him a text, rubs his thumb over the keyboard. What would he say? How can he explain himself? Would Bucky even care at this point? No, that’s not--Steve knows Bucky would care. Does care. He knows if he opened the door at all, Bucky would step through it. He just doesn’t know how to do it. The door feels like it’s made of reinforced steel, rusted shut. If he wrenches it open, will it ever shut properly again? 

“Ugh,” he says out loud, shoving the key in the lock of the mailbox he’s been ignoring for a week. But being that it’s about the size of a box of tissues and can fit approximately seven bills and three flyers before reaching capacity, he knows he’s going to have to bite the bullet and clean it out before the crotchety mailman seizes it and returns it to the post office, which is god knows where.

As he suspected, it’s stuffed full of envelopes--the square, heavy kind that will inevitably house trite condolences, and not the usual thin rectangles stamped with THIRD NOTICE he’s used to. He shoves them all into the crook of his arm, and then manages to drop everything when he tries to catch the one that inevitably falls. 

He notices it when he leans down to gather up the pile. A simple white envelope, scrawled with his name and address in familiar handwriting, J. B. Barnes in the top left. He nearly drops everything again. Instead, he picks up the envelope with shaking hands and stuffs it in his pocket, walks quickly up the stairs. He feels like he’s got an armed explosive in his pocket, his palms are sweating as he opens his door, and he lets the rest of the mail scatter on the floor of the entryway. He’ll deal with it later. 

He gives himself a papercut tearing open the envelope and sucks on the cut as he draws the card out. It’s a simple black background with the words _Let me be the first to punch the next person who tells you everything happens for a reason_ in bold white font. He opens it up to find **I’m Sorry** written inside, and beside it a truly fucking terrible drawing of Cap holding the shield, and behind him the masked Soldier, pointing a gun over Steve’s shoulder. They’re barely better than stick figures, but they make Steve smile so big he feels like his face is going to crack open. Beneath them Bucky’s written neatly, _I’m here if you need some backup_.

Steve laughs a little wetly, the sound loud in his empty apartment. Fuck, he is such an asshole.

**:: :: ::**

On Friday Bucky takes a big step: he takes the 4:35am train instead of the 3:55am. Partly it’s a test of his new schedule-free lifestyle--which, if he’s honest, is fucking terrifying--but mostly, it’s so he’ll stop looking for Steve on the train. It’s been twelve days since he’s heard a word from him, and he knows he had to have received Bucky’s card by now. So that’s it, then.

The thought that this is how it ends, that he might never get to see Steve again, leaves a jagged, empty feeling in his chest he knows will take awhile to fill in. Maybe there will always be a tiny ache where the memory of Steve Rogers lives in him, but that’s okay. Or it will be okay eventually. He’s gotten through worse, he knows he can survive a little heartbreak. Doesn’t make it any less painful in the meantime, though. 

He feels a little frisson of panic when he spots Sheila and Daryl standing around outside the building when he arrives--only thirty three minutes early this time, an improvement of nearly 48% that he definitely did not pay for in a gallon of sweat and an upset stomach all the way to work.

“Hey, Barnes,” Sheila says brightly, tossing her hair. “You up for some coffee today? We’re dying.”

He has to swallow hard and hope it isn’t obvious when he takes a deep, calming breath. “Sure,” he manages. “That would be great.”

He might take a few minutes in the bathroom to wipe down his sweaty...everything and splash cold water on his face when he gets back, but he has a nice time. And the muffin Daryl talks him into getting is delicious.

**:: :: ::**

The door buzzes and makes Clint nearly drop the fully loaded pizza peel on the way to the oven. “Fuck,” he hisses, righting it just in time. “Who the fuck is at the door? We’re all here.”

Bucky and Nat exchange shrugs, and Nat gives Clint a shove with her bare foot. “Food, oven. Hungry.” 

Bucky’s smiling when he opens the door, almost giddy with the normalcy after a stressful day of Trying His Best. He feels it slide off his face in slow motion when he sees Steve on the other side. His heart does something complicated as he takes in Steve’s hollow eyes and the determined set to his jaw. He looks fucking awful, and Bucky has to stop himself from reaching out. 

“Hi,” Steve rasps, his eyes skating over Bucky’s face like they’re parsing every microexpression. “Can we--I didn’t want to text you, and I didn’t--I’m no good on the phone, so I thought.” He closes his eyes, shaking his head, clearly trying to gather himself. “I’ve been pacing the hallway out here for like half an hour, I think your neighbors are about to call the cops. Would it be okay if I came in? So we can--I have some things I’d like to say to you. If that’s okay.”

Bucky nods, at a complete loss for words. He steps back and lets Steve pass, and then turns numbly to Nat and Clint, who are staring from the kitchen. “This is, uh.” He clears his throat. “This is Steve. We’re gonna go talk in my room.”

Nat narrows her eyes at Steve, and Bucky glares at her behind his head, and leads Steve down the hall. He closes the door behind them and gestures at the bed. “Uh, you can sit if you want.”

Bucky leans back against the door, feeling like a wary cat as he watches Steve take in his room, and tries to picture it through his eyes. Bed made neatly with a striped gray comforter, a glass of water and a paperback from the library on his nightstand, beside the lamp. Two pairs of shoes tucked neatly under the foot of the bed. His wallet and keys on the dresser, and three framed photographs. Instead of sitting, Steve goes to his dresser to have a closer look. 

“These your parents?” he asks, reaching out a hand as though to pick up the frame, but stopping mid-air. 

“Yeah,” Bucky says impatiently. 

“They must be really proud of you,” Steve says, smiling a little over his shoulder. 

“Well, they’ve been dead for about fifteen years now, so who knows.” 

He can’t tell if Steve is startled by the harsh, flat tone of his voice, or by what he’s said. “I’m sorry, I didn’t know.”

“Well, I might have told you. If you’d given me the chance.”

Steve squeezes his eyes shut and nods. “Yeah,” he says tightly, and moves to the bed to sit down, rubbing his hands on his thighs. He looks up at Bucky, and his face is pained when he says, “Bucky, I’m so sorry. I--I fucked up. I don’t have any explanation for myself, there’s nothing I can say to make up for the way I treated you. I just--I’m not good at talking about my feelings, never have been.” He smiles self-deprecatingly. “So bad that I spent the week writing this whole comic about Cap realizing he needs the Soldier, asking for backup instead of just talking to you.”

Bucky raises his brows. “So you got my card.”

Steve swallows and nods. “Yeah, Buck. Thank you for sending it. It was--it meant a lot to me, that you would reach out after I--after everything. Made me realize I was being an idiot.”

“And you still waited a week to say anything to me?” Bucky asks, incredulous.

“Well, I was going to give you the comic, as like a grand gesture--okay, I deserve that,” he says when Bucky laughs humorlessly.

“You’re such a fucking idiot,” Bucky says. 

Steve nods emphatically. “Yes. But this is me trying not to be. As a friend suggested, this is me using my words. I am sorry for being an idiot, and I’m sorry for hurting you. If you’ll let me, I’d like to make it up to you.”

“Why?” Bucky asks. He has to know. 

Steve looks up at him, his face so heartbreakingly open. “Because I care about you. Because I don’t think I’ve stopped thinking about you since the moment I caught sight of you on that train. You have been through things I can’t even imagine, but you are still the kindest person I’ve ever met. You make me want to be a better person.”

Bucky closes his eyes and breathes deep, willing away the tears. He feels bruised up inside, heart throbbing a slow beat against his ribs. He already knows he’s going to give Steve a second chance, knew it the moment he saw him on the doorstep. It’s not in him to turn someone he cares about away. But he’s got to build some boundaries for himself. Not to cage, but to protect. 

“Okay,” he says, opening his wet eyes. “Okay, but listen, Steve. If this--whatever this is, if it’s going to work, you’ve got to talk to me. You’ve got to tell me things, I can’t always be the one to drag it out of you. I want...I want to be able to know you. You’ve got to let me in.”

Steve face does something complicated. “I know, I want to. I’m going to try, I promise.”

“Do better than try,” Bucky says softly, moving to sit beside Steve on the bed. 

Steve turns toward him. “Can I--is it okay if I…”

Bucky laughs and shakes his head. “You’re doing great, champ.”

Steve sets his jaw, but his eyes are laughing. “Bucky, may I please hug you?” he says very deliberately.

Bucky sighs. “If you must.” He holds out his arm and is wholly unprepared for Steve to barrel into him, pressing close like he wants to burrow inside Bucky. Bucky might let him. He wraps his arm tight around Steve, feeling Steve shudder against him, knowing he’s shaking too. It’s almost painful, this feeling of relief mixed with fear. He aches with it. 

“Are you okay?” he whispers and feels Steve tremble. 

“Not really,” he says, his voice rough and quiet, and Bucky knows how much it must have cost him to say the words.

“Tell me what you need,” Bucky asks. 

And it’s not a test, not really, but it still makes him feel more steady when Steve whispers, “Can we just stay like this for awhile?” Steve shudders when Bucky lays back on the bed and tugs Steve down to lay close, curled up together on their sides. Steve presses his wet face to Bucky’s neck and sighs. “I missed you.”

“Me too,” Bucky says, pressing a kiss to his hair and running his hand over Steve’s back, content to stay just like this for as long as Steve needs. Maybe later they’ll get up and eat some pizza, and he’ll get to introduce Steve to Clint and Nat, or maybe they’ll fall asleep just like this, tangled together.

For once, he’s okay with not knowing exactly what comes next. For now, this is enough.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> and that's a wrap on this rbb thing! Please don’t forget to go see the art in full size on [kittyandmulder’s profile](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19417498/chapters/46209724) and tell them how gorgeous it is! 
> 
> you can find all three of us on twitter at [steebadore](https://twitter.com/steebadore) and [kittyandmulder](https://twitter.com/KittyandMulder). please make sure you go check out the rest of kitty and mulder's art - they are stunningly talented! 
> 
> i am also on [tumblr](https://steebadore.tumblr.com/) if that's more your speed. <3
> 
> thank you so much for reading! we hope you enjoyed this story.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [ART for: It takes a lot to know a man](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19417498) by [kittyandmulder](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kittyandmulder/pseuds/kittyandmulder), [steebadore](https://archiveofourown.org/users/steebadore/pseuds/steebadore)




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